


This is Yesterday

by thisismyplayground



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Series 9 Spoilers (including Hell Bent)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 176,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismyplayground/pseuds/thisismyplayground
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor is back in the TARDIS with a new companion and all of time and space at his fingertips. Elsewhere in the universe, two familiar faces are having the time of their lives as they delay the inevitable. But on Gallifrey, the Cloister bells have started ringing again as the true prophecy of The Hybrid begins to take hold.</p><p>As the Universe lurches and time unravels, stories and songs fight to intertwine again. Is this a symptom of the chaos that has been unleashed or, just possibly, could it be the cure?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always Separate, Always Together

 

* * *

  _“Always separate, always together, once something has begun it has begun forever.”_

Concrete Pigeon – Kate Tempest, Sound of Rum (ft. Polar Bear)

* * *

Beneath the towering spires of Gallifrey's citadel, something was stirring. Voices. Whispers. Rasping and rattling faintly across the stone walls of the Cloisters; at the edge of the universe, give or take a star system, previously unspoken truths were beginning to echo, growing in volume. Ethereal silently screaming figures slid amongst the dust and dirt, their flickering faces frozen in horror as the whispers gathered, finding their strength until the ground all but shook with the sonorous pealing of a thousand ancient bells. 

In the dark, as far from the safety of the lift shaft as he dared to tread, Gastron – newly promoted and feeling all the weight of that extra responsibility on his shoulders at this precise moment – stood, trying to hold his fear back as he sweated profusely under his uncomfortable armour. He wasn't sure what to say. How could they have got it all so wrong? A wraith passed a couple of lengths away and the soldier hated himself for instinctively shrinking back. He thumbed his communicator nervously.

“General?” His voice rang hollowly through the chamber. He felt like a new born; out of place, out of time, out of his depth... 

“Report.”

“I...” Gastron collected himself. “The wraiths are talking, ma'am.” There was no response on the other end. The bells continued to toll, rolling and repeating. It was starting to give him a headache. “Ma'am?”

“All of them?” The General said. If Gastron didn't know better, he would have said she sounded shaken.

“Yes, ma'am.” A pause.

“And the bells are still ringing.” This wasn't really a question, Gastron knew she would be able to hear them in the background of his transmission. “What are they saying?” She asked, tinny over the communicator. Gastron swallowed. He had known that would be the next question and he wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to answer it. He held his communicator aloft so that the General might hear for herself.

 _The prodigal son is lost forever, the time of darkness approaches. When all that was will never be and all that never was encroaches._  

“That's it, ma'am.” He reported. “Over and over again.”

“A new prophecy.” She stated. Gastron could sense her weariness acutely. “What have we done?”

Gastron closed his eyes for as long as he dared and breathed out heavily. “We could not have known.” It didn't sound anywhere close to reassuring.

“Come back up to the Council Chambers,” the General ordered. “We're going to have to convene the new High Council, determine a plan of action.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Gastron turned his back and made his way to the lift doors, anxiously waiting for them to reopen. He tried to not think that perhaps having a plan of action was the very thing that had got them into this position in the first place. The lift doors quietly whooshed open and Gastron stepped inside.

It was only then that he noticed: the bells and the voices had stopped. Across the Cloisters, amongst the columns, the wraiths had gathered. Twelve of them in total and all stood facing him, ghostly visages shining across the dark. He gulped, torn between stepping forward to face them and praying for the lift doors to close so that he didn't have to.

After a long moment, as though of one mind, the wraiths turned away and slid off into the deepest depths of the crypt. 

* * *

Clara was fine.

She was fine at first. It felt fitting, almost, their separation.

They had always been impossible, she supposed. Why not take that to its logical conclusion?

Of course, if she stopped to think about it too long, she got that feeling of dread at the thought of him being alone again.

If she stopped to think, she got that painful burning lump in her throat (which seemed to be an emotional rather than a physical sensation, she was surprised to learn) at the unfairness of the universe conspiring to take the memory of her away from him. He deserved to know what she had told him in the Cloisters, didn't he? It had taken them so long to get to that point, even longer for him – god, to the end of the entire bloody universe, he was such a stubborn git – and yet the sheer potential of what lengths they might go to once they had finally acknowledged what they were had left the mighty Time Lords of Gallifrey quaking in their more or less immortal boots.

Part of her was curious to find out whether or not they were right. Some days, she couldn't see how they could possibly be a destructive force, the two of them. The Doctor and Clara Oswald. They _saved_ worlds, they didn't destroy them. They saved each other, time and time again. There was nothing that she wouldn't do for him... 

...And that was the problem, wasn't it? Because when you put that devotion and that furious possessiveness into the hands of time travellers, you can't guarantee that there won't be collateral damage.

Take Ashildr, for example: Clara shook herself slightly, loosening her thoughts to peer over the console at her companion as the other woman focussed on sticking labels next to every lever and dial in an attempt to learn their functions. Ashildr was a permanent reminder of why they couldn't be; still alive at the end of all things because the Doctor had seen something of Clara in her and had to save her. Call it a dry run in saving Clara herself. It could have all gone spectacularly wrong and, from the sound of some of the stories Ashildr had shared from her diaries, it sometimes, catastrophically, had.

No one was supposed to live forever, no matter how much they were loved. The Viking girl who stood across from her now, whizzing through time and space, shouldn't be there. She'd had no choice in what had happened to her and had suffered beyond the telling of it as a result. Apply that to the whole universe, to all those planets and systems Clara had so far only glimpsed and her new companion became a stark warning of how their narrow-minded selfishness to be together at any cost could end up. How had Ashildr put it over wine one night? _They were too young._

Ashildr must have sensed Clara's mood. She stopped her revision and moved around to stand next to her. “Having a wobble?”

Clara smiled, grateful in a way that Ashildr had been there for both times when she and the Doctor had been torn away from each other – she didn't have to explain.

“Just a little one,” she said, demonstrating the approximate size of the wobble with her thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps we should avoid landing in Scotland for a bit, if at all possible.”

“Even in the twenty eighth century?” Ashildr asked, raising an eyebrow. Clara shrugged, briefly feeling a little pathetic. “...Right,” Ashildr nodded. “I'll add it to the list.”

“Please don't tell me you've got an actual list,” Clara groaned, finally spurring into movement and pulling off her new leather jacket before flinging it on the chair she'd eventually convinced the TARDIS to fabricate.

“I've got a list until we don't need one anymore.” Ashildr said, not unkindly. Clara gave a hollow laugh. There might be a list for some time then. She tried to clamp down on her internal arguments for a moment and took a second to look around at the bright white walls of the bare console room. She nudged the solitary chair with her boot and watched as it wheeled over to where Ashildr was stood, worrying.

“Do you think it's time we tried to make some more furniture?” Clara asked as her friend brought the chair to a halt with her heel.

“Oh, absolutely.” Ashildr grinned, crisis averted. Clara rubbed her hands together and spun around, taking in the space.

“We're going to need some bookcases.”

* * *

Halfway across the galaxy and at a completely different point in time, the Doctor furrowed his brow at something in the corner of the room. The ambient lighting in the TARDIS brightened slightly, with a sigh. The Doctor put down his sonic screwdriver and the dilation cog he was trying to resonate, pausing just as he was about to wipe his hands down the front of his checked trousers. 

 _“Use a cloth, for god's sake_.”

That little voice in his head again, muffled but absolutely and most definitely not his. Maybe it was Donna's. Sounded a bit like her. He smiled.

He pulled an oil covered handkerchief out of his coat pocket, careful to not touch the velvet. He wiped his hands, probably putting more grease on them than he was removing. _Happy now?_ He asked the voice. He harrumphed when no reply came.

He stood for a second, distracted. He'd completely forgotten why he'd stopped resonating in the first place. He shook his head to clear it and gave a shrug. He was just about to pick the sonic up again when the TARDIS gave a little mewl and a light flickered in his peripheral vision. _Oh. Okay, then._ He wondered over to the side of the antechamber, ducking under some low hanging cables whilst giving his beloved ship an affectionate pat on the column that rose up through the floor and into the ceiling above.

A small stack of well-thumbed books were piled haphazardly on an alcove that had clearly at some point been re-purposed as a shelf. Like he didn't have enough of those in the library or in the console room, for crying out loud. Next to the books, an empty coffee mug. The Doctor picked up the mug and sniffed it. Ikea. Earth, twenty first Century. There had been hot chocolate in it at some point, with some of those little pink marshmallow things that...

His thought dried up. _Interesting_ . He picked up the top book next and turned it over slowly in his hands. A first edition of _Pride and Prejudice_. It felt new though, as though the text had just been bound a few months prior. The Doctor's right eye twitched slightly. He could feel a familiar fuzziness radiating through the centre of his head, grey and viscous. That bloody neural block again.

He had figured out some time ago that his inability to recall anything about this 'Clara' he had apparently travelled with was the result of a neural block. It took an awful lot of effort to meddle with the memory of a Time Lord – there's not a great deal else other than Time Lord technology or one of those damn worms that would do the trick. And he knew he'd been on Gallifrey, as much as he knew he had no immediate desire to go back. Either way, he had surmised that whatever exactly had happened when he had been there, with her, had not been good.

He also knew it was very, very unlikely that anyone would have been able to force him to be blocked that, short of an incredibly cunning trick (which most likely wouldn't work because he was somewhat of a genius and would certainly have seen straight through it), there wasn't really anyone he knew of who would be able to make him take a neural block without a fight. His reasoning led to two scenarios, neither of which he particularly liked to dwell on:

One. He'd given himself the neural block. Two, she had.

He ran an exasperated hand through his hair and turned the book over again to look at the front cover. He had the strangest feeling he knew what he'd find if he looked at the dedication page. It would be so easy to carry on playing detective like those first few weeks after he'd woken up in Nevada. She'd clearly been there when he'd met Jane Austen and who better to describe his mystery companion to him than the world famous author? The TARDIS rumbled what sounded like a warning. “Oh, shut up.” He muttered. “Why go to the effort to show me this in the first place if you don't want me to look for her?” But he relented and set the book back down in its place, his fingers bewilderingly stroking the spine of their own gentle accord.

He'd been alone for too long, he decided. His recent confusing jaunt with River had shown him that much, at least. All this brooding and trying to fill in the gaps was just causing him a massive headache. Whatever reason he, or she, had for imposing the neural block, it must have been a sound one and absolutely nothing good could possibly come from investigating further; he would just have to trust his innate instinct on this one. He knew the rules and how important it was that he, of all people, stick to them.

It was time to find someone new to travel with. Yes! That was it. A new companion to impress and dazzle and tease. That would definitely help to clear his head.

The Doctor bounded up the stairs two at a time, his resonating duties temporarily neglected.

* * *

Clara tried to not yawn as the trade agreement droned on. They'd been on Aechon for almost two weeks now, and had rather successfully de-escalated a civil war. She should have been proud of their work but right now she was three hours (by her calculation) into a meeting about grain that she had stopped paying attention to roughly two hours and fifty seven minutes ago. 

Absentmindedly, she ran her fingers over the inside of her wrist. Her lack of pulse persisted, of course, but she had a different sensation to enjoy now as she felt the very slightest change in texture on her skin as she skimmed over her recent acquisition. The tattoo was smaller than the one on her neck but no less ominous: an intricate black raven stood out against the pale hue of her flesh. She'd got it on a desert moon a few stops back as a reminder of her duty to return to the Trap Street once she was done with her farewell tour, so to speak.

Naturally, the certainty of her death and her own genuine willingness to go back and face it was hardly something she was going to forget but the more she and Ashildr travelled together, the less inclined she was to face her raven any time soon. She was having too much fun, she had realised soberly as they'd run hand in hand from the Spice Cartel after destroying their stash and reputation in one fell swoop. She had ended up dragging Ashildr into the most hygienic parlour they could find so that she could have something to look at to jolt her out of complacency every now and again. After all, it wouldn't do to rip apart the fabric of time just because she still wasn't quite familiar enough with when to stop.

Ashildr nudged Clara sharply with her elbow.

“Sorry, what?”

One of the High Councillors – T'Pau, was it? That seemed wrong... – was doing the Aechon equivalent of clearing their throat. “We would move that we ratify the treaty with the Shadow Proclamation at once.” The TARDIS translated what would otherwise, Clara guessed, have been a combination of clicks and whistles.

She nodded. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Councillor.”

Ashildr leaned in and whispered in Clara's ear. “They want us to go with them.” Clara took a moment for that to sink in, a strange absence filling the place where her heart would have previously skipped a beat.

“We can't.” Clara cursed the way her voice broke as she spoke. The Councillor looked at her with a slight inclination of her antennae. “I'm sorry,” Clara continued. “We can't go with you to the Shadow Proclamation. It's just not possible.”

There was a murmur of disapproval around the table and Clara squinted at Ashildr in askance.

“As Arbiters of the Peace, we need to be at the ratification or it doesn't come to pass.” Her friend advised. In a low whisper Ashildr added, “I know we said we couldn't go anywhere he regularly visits but we have to see this through, Clara. If we don't complete the peace process...”

“I know,” Clara whispered back. “But if our timelines become entwined again -”

“We don't know that's how it works.” Ashildr said.

“Exactly!” Clara raised her voice accidentally. “We don't have a manual for this, Ashildr. You of all people know what's at stake.”

“Keep your voice down. The neural block is still in place, remember? So even if...” Ashildr touched her hand to Clara's shoulder, softly. She didn't have the heart to finish that sentence. “I'm sorry, but we have to do this. We knew there was a risk when we started trying to save planets instead of just sight-seeing. I tried to warn you.”

The mutters around the other side of the table were getting louder as Clara stopped to think. Had they made a mistake by coming here at all? For all they knew, the civil war was a fixed point in time and was destined to happen so that the warring Aechon factions could get their grain-based aggression out of their systems. Maybe the very treaty they were going to ratify would fail within weeks and trigger an even bigger war which then had the Shadow Proclamation itself dragged into the middle of it, spreading out across the galaxy...

If Clara had been capable of breathing at that moment, she may have started to hyperventilate.

 _God,_ she thought. _What I wouldn't give for a Time Lord at my side right now_.

She felt the eyes of the room on her and risked a glance at Ashildr's grave expression. In the absence of any certainty about what action to take, she decided to heed the advice she'd held impossibly close to her heart over the last year: _Never be cowardly and never be cruel. And if you ever are, make amends._

“Sorry, High Councillor. I misunderstood. Of course we will come with you to ratify the treaty. It would be an honour.” She smiled as genuinely as she knew how and felt Ashildr relax next to her.

The whole room let out a roar of jubilation that was so heart-felt, Clara's doubts almost entirely evaporated.

* * *

Smoke was pouring from somewhere it shouldn't be, filling the TARDIS control room rapidly as the Doctor stumbled around trying to find the stupid lever to turn on the fans. He heard a hacking cough coming from the floor at the far side of the room. 

“Anahson!” Flipping the switch and giving the fans a boost with the sonic before flapping across to crouch next to the young Janus. He gripped her shoulders as she shook, spluttering. “Are you okay?” Concerned grey eyes fluttered over her face, trying to assess the damage.

“I'm fine,” she croaked. “Two mouths, twice the smoke...” The Doctor chuckled appreciatively before helping his companion to her feet. Once he was sure she was steady, he rushed back over to the console and pulled the monitor round to face him, sharply.

“What was that?” Anahson asked, brushing herself down and pulling her hood back over her head. “And where are we? Are we still on the Krillitane base?”

“Oh, I hope not.” He replied absently as he chewed on his finger, trying to make sense of the readings. “Oh! That's it!” He flung the monitor away with such force it nearly went full circle around the console and Anahson found herself having to step back before it smacked her in the face.

“I am Doctor Idiot once more!” He declared loudly as he skipped down a corridor, leaving Anahson in his wake. He leaped down the stairs in two jumps, picked something up from the antechamber floor and turned to triumphantly hold it out for  the bemused Anahson to see.

“You are very rarely not Doctor Idiot.” Anahson replied as she stepped cautiously down into a room she didn't think she had ever seen before. The Doctor rolled his eyes. He enjoyed Anahson's company but sometimes the Janus was a little bit too zen for her own good although, that said, if she was making fun of him it definitely meant she was coming out of her shell a little.

“What is that?” Anahson asked, finally taking the bait.

“A dilation cog. I was resonating it a while ago and I got distracted by...something. Must have forgotten to put it back.” He pulled a face. _Whoopsie_.

Anahson walked around the central column of the room, investigating. The room had a strange feel to it. Normally, she enjoyed her inability to be able to see the Doctor's past and future – it was a relief from the usual influx of emotion she got from most species, more white noise than anything else – but something in this room flared, red and tortured. She hovered next to a small alcove where the sensation seemed to get stronger.

“What does it do?” She asked as her eyes flickered over a pile of suspiciously out of place books.

“Oh, I don't know. Looks as though it stops the console room from filling with smoke at inopportune moments...” The Doctor flipped open a hatch in the floor and  lay down to poke his head in. He pulled himself further forward and stretched out his hand to put the cog back in place. It slotted in with a click and he grinned widely, only to gasp out loud as a sharp pain lanced through his temples.

He cried out and slid forward, trying to grab onto anything he could before he fell. A host of images flashed behind his eyes, too quickly to make any sense. _Gallifreyan writing, covered in dirt. Hands brushing to clear the patterns. A whispering of voices raised in poetry. A pair of brown, trusting eyes filling with tears._ Oh, and the pain...

Anahson flung the book she had picked up back onto the pile and rushed over, grabbing his boots. She leaned forward, grasped his arm and hauled him out of harm's way, grimacing as she noticed the several hundred storey drop into the inner workings of the TARDIS below. The Doctor's hands clutched his head as the pain flared and just as suddenly subsided. She briefly cradled him, trying to project an aura of calm as he struggled against her. Under her hoody, her second face started to animate, eyes opening into the cotton darkness.

“No,” the Doctor rasped. “Anahson, stop.” He scuttled away from her, trying not to notice the inexplicable tears tracking down his cheeks. “You don't have to do that. Not for me.”

They had an unspoken rule that she would never have to use her abilities for him, would never have to expose her true identity as long as they travelled together. He knew all too well what their empathy cost the Janus.

“Sorry,” she said, feeling ashamed for some reason. “I can't help it.”

“Don't apologise!” He snapped. “I know you can't. But it's a bit daft to go all...” he gestured wildly with his hands, “just because I got zapped by my own stupid ship when I was trying to repair her.” He scowled around vaguely at the TARDIS, trying to cover up the pounding of his hearts.

“Is that what happened?” Anahson asked. He was stretching the truth again and they both knew it. She tried to not be too disappointed. After all, there were things she knew that he never could.

“It doesn't matter.”

He pulled himself to his feet and closed the service hatch with a metallic thunk: conversation over. “Come on, come on!” Sounding more like himself again, he flapped her onto her feet and back up the stairs. “Let's find out where the emergency landing has taken us. I've not done a good emergency landing for ages. Well, for at least three weeks by your standards.”

Anahson allowed herself to be ushered out of the room and the Doctor took the opportunity to wipe his face dry with the sleeve of his jumper. Wherever they had landed, he hoped it was somewhere interesting. He wasn't sure he wanted to have any time to think about the implications of what he had possibly just seen.

* * *

The Doctor gave the old police box a reassuring pat as he hid it behind a curtain in what appeared to be a large meeting room. He tucked his key into his trouser pocket and waggled his eyebrows at Anahson to let her know to activate the automatic door. He gallantly indicated for his companion to step through first into the bustling hallway beyond, knowing that the atrium had the most spectacular view, despite its slightly bureaucratic aura. 

“The Shadow Proclamation!” He declared grandly, sweeping his arm around in a big arch to allow Anahson the chance to take it all in. Surreptitiously, he licked his finger and waved it in the air to double check that the TARDIS had been right about the date and time; it wouldn't do to run into a previous version of himself here, of all places. His usual trips to the three asteroids that made up the Shadow Proclamation ordinarily heralded some sort of cataclysmic event. It would be nice to have a look around without any extra pressure, for a change.

“If I'm not much mistaken, we're on the Justice Asteroid which is the most boring of the Shadow Proclamation asteroids to be honest but it does have the best catering, so I suppose they try to make up for it. There's a café over there that does a really good carrot cake with organic, non-sentient carrots. Are you hungry?”

Anahson smiled and wandered over to the large windows which stretched from the floor up and away as far as she could see, the other floors of the impressive building visible across various floating platforms. An expansive nebula cast a kaleidoscope beyond the reinforced crystal, spreading across the vastness of space, a swirling mass of colours and half-imagined shapes. It took her breath away.

“Not bad, eh?” The Doctor's brogue was soft as he watched the wonder cross her face.

“My mother came here once,” Anahson announced, unexpectedly. “She petitioned the Refugee Commission when she had escaped from her indentured servitude. She was pregnant with me at the time.”

The Doctor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Your mother must have been a clever woman. This would have been the only place that would have even considered helping her.”

Anahson allowed her sorrow to burn for a moment before extinguishing it. Whilst her mother had recovered from her reanimation after the stasis chamber on Trap Street, she had only survived for three years beyond their first, half-forgotten, encounter with the Doctor. She had lived too difficult a life for too long...

“What's this?” Anahson asked, blinking rapidly against her memories before pointing at a design that appeared to be frosted into the otherwise transparent crystal of the window. She waved her hand over it and the design lit up, bright orange.

“Ah,” said the Doctor, waving his own hand over it and watching the display change. “It's a list of hearings that are happening in the courts today. Look -” he pinched the interactive menu at the corners and enlarged it. “Meeting room Delta Pi for an Adiposian divorce, that one we were just in is reserved for, ugh, the ratification of the Aechon Grain Treaty – very important but very boring that one, although well done them for ending that pointless civil war two decades earlier than I thought they did – and, what's this?” He paused, scrolling through the information that had populated on the next page.

“I thought you wanted carrot cake?”

“This is far more interesting than carrot cake.” He gestured for Anashon to read the screen. “A Judoon mercenary being tried for murder in Court Room 7z3 slash b. Death penalty.” Double checking the information, the Doctor made a mental note of the court room's location. “Murder? A Judoon? They follow orders, the Judoon. Not known for working independently or using their initiative. Sticklers for the law. That's kind of the point of them. How would someone even build a case against one?”

The Doctor felt his interest pique and gave himself a mental fist bump. A mystery to solve, at last!

“I've always wanted to be in a courtroom drama,” he said as he propelled Anahson ahead of him to one of the nearby transporter pads. They stepped onto the mat and he punched the co-ordinates into the control panel on the side. “Keep your arms and legs and faces inside the transporter at all times, Anahson. Oh, and when we get up there, whatever you do...”

He turned to face her as he finished pressing the last button of the sequence, his face deadly serious but his eyes twinkling. “...Don't steal any staplers from the stenographers. They really don't like it when you do that.”

The transporter shimmered into life and whooshed them away, drowning out the sound of Anahson's laughter.

* * *

“How can we be late?” Clara gasped as she tried to keep up with Ashildr. The other woman swept along the corridor searching for Meeting Room Apple Theta. “Seriously. We're time travellers. How can we possibly be late?” 

Ashildr pulled up in front of some large automatic doors that overlooked the atrium and its ridiculously impressive view. Clara almost barrelled into her as she skidded to a halt, resting her hands on her hips.

“You do realise that you're not out of breath at all, yes?” Ashildr smirked. “You're just making a fuss on purpose.”

Clara narrowed her eyes. “I don't like being late,” she muttered. “Are you sure we're in the right place?”

Ashildr demured. “I used to work here.” At Clara's widening eyes, she hastened to add: “Not now. In the future. Maybe a couple of centuries from now, give or take. I always wondered why my biometrics were already in the database.”

Clara turned her back and scratched briefly at the back of her neck, a new nervous habit. She gazed out at the nebula, trying to make sense of the myriad of patterns in its mass. “Well, now you know.” She said, shortly. She rounded on her companion. “Did you not think that was worth mentioning?”

“I can't always remember until it's too late, Clara. You know that.”

“Yeah, there's a lot of that going around.” Clara winced as soon as she said it. She was being unfair, and not just to Ashildr. She tried to shake off her bad mood. They had to ratify the treaty, make their excuses to the Aechon and get back to the TARDIS. Then it would be simply a case of picking a planet and keeping their heads down for a while until she regrouped. She was starting to worry that she was getting skittish. Ashildr activated the door to the meeting room before Clara could open her mouth to apologise.

Together, they entered the grand room which was bordered with black velveteen curtains lining each wall and tastefully decorated with ergonomically designed cross-species chairs. The Aechon were already waiting, each faction sat at opposite sides of a long metallic table. Everyone stood as they approached and, despite herself, Clara felt an electric buzz: _they_ had done this, they had brokered this peace.

Not bad for someone who was technically dead.

* * *

“Objection!” The Doctor roared, nostrils flaring. There was an audible swivel of heads in the otherwise sombre court room as the inhabitants of the chamber turned as one to stare at him. 

Anahson shrank down in her seat, mortified.

The presiding judge, a large humanoid male with a beautiful blue sheen to his skin, peered over his half moon glasses. “The court has not yet begun session, Sir.” Even the accused Judoon, shackled behind his force shield, had the grace to look confused.

“Well, that's not my fault,” the Time Lord replied, indignant. He pushed past the other open-mouthed spectators in his row of the gallery and made his way down the stairs. “I can't be held responsible for your tardiness, that's just unreasonable.” Two armoured Judoon guards blocked his way as he tried to cross the gate over to the area where the startled defense counsel were half stood, frozen as they contemplated fleeing.

“Order, order!” Loud bangs emitted from the sonic gavel as the judge's eyes flushed orange at the indignity of the disruption.

“You can't call order, you've not overruled my objection. Seriously, are you a real judge or did you get your degree online?” He carefully pushed the guards aside and barged through to stand in front of the Judoon defendant. Two electric blasters burred into life as the guards rounded in on him. The Doctor swung around, eyes blazing.

“Put those down, now.” The burly guards looked at each other, unsure, before timidly looking up to where the judge was sat. He waved his hand, dismissively – _not in his court-room_ . With a whirr and a _blip_ , the weapons turned themselves off. The Doctor swiftly turned his attention to the accused.

"Hello, what's your name?" The bewildered Judoon went to open its jaws but the Doctor held up a stern finger. "Ah! No. Shush. Didn't your lawyer tell you not to answer any questions before consulting with them?" He span around dramatically to face the benches of scurrying legal teams. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and held up his psychic paper with a flourish, as though it would somehow feature an explanation for his interruption. And maybe it did, he just didn't particularly want anyone to have time to read it just in case.

"I am your new lawyer!" He crowed, pausing ever so briefly to give Anahson a theatrical wink. "You don't want to be represented by these pudding brains. Look at them. I've been banging on for a good five minutes now, waltzing down here shouting the odds, neutralising the guards' weapons - yes, you heard me boys - and they haven't even tried to find out who I am. It's almost as though..." he leaned conspiratorially against the force shield, which shimmied and rippled under the weight of his elbow. "It's almost as though they don't want you to get a fair trial."

* * *

Clara couldn't shake the feeling she'd had since entering the room and it was starting to unnerve her. The electric buzz rippled across her skin again and she shivered. Far from being a rush at their peace-keeping achievements, it seemed to be something else altogether. And it was getting worse. What was it? She looked over her shoulder as the conversation carried on around her, glancing at one of the velvet curtains that was, for some reason, attracting her attention. Was it her imagination or was there a warm draught coming from that part of the room? 

A rumble of delighted grunts and clicks turned her head back towards where the trade agreement was finally drawing to a close. The Aechon High Councillor shook mandibles with the Rebel leader and the Administrator of the Shadow Proclamation stamped the document with his official seal. Ashildr stood to congratulate them and Clara rose to her feet to do the same.

Suddenly, an alarm blasted out across the room and all of the inhabitants jumped. A disembodied voice came across over a hitherto unseen loudhailer: "Please remain calm. There has been a minor disturbance in Court Room 7z3 slash b. For the safety of all Shadow Proclamation guests and employees, a sectional lock down is now in place.” Everyone in the room turned to look at the Administrator, who scurried over what appeared to be an intercom by the door.

“It's probably just a false alarm,” he hurriedly reassured them. “We've been having a lot of drills recently – new head of security.” He turned to speak in hushed whispers to whoever was on the other end of the channel. Ashildr smiled at the Aechon to reassure them. By unspoken agreement, Clara wandered over to where the Administrator was listening for a response.

“Anything we can help with?” She asked, whilst also trying to nosy at whatever information was being withheld. The Administrator held up a finger, as a coded message flashed up on the panel. Only static came through the speaker.

“It looks as though we have a rogue Judoon.” The thin, nervous man replied, wringing his hands together. “This is not a drill.” He crossed over to where the newly signed agreement sat on the table and delicately picked it up. With utmost care, he carried it across to where the intercom panel still flashed red. With a swipe of his biometric pass, a drawer opened to the bottom of the panel. The Administrator pulled out a crystal tube, carefully rolled the agreement into it and twisted the tube shut. He placed it back inside the drawer, pressed a button and the tube whizzed away.

"What do you mean 'rogue'?" Clara asked, folding her arms across her chest.

The Administrator turned to face the Aechon. "Madame High Councillor, your treaty has been filed and uploaded to the database. You need not fear."

"But what's happening with the Judoon?" Ashildr prompted.

"The Judoon are the...rhinocerousy...species that guard this place, right?" Clara asked Ashildr, not entirely sure if asking that question wasn't a bit rude, or worse. She hadn't come across them before although she remembered the Doctor mentioning having crossed paths with the Judoon before. Something about a hospital on the moon.

"They're mercenaries," Ashildr supplied. "Expert trackers, built in blasters for dispensing justice. They live to uphold the law, which is why the Shadow Proclamation use them." The Aechon delegation bristled as one. They had experienced Judoon justice themselves in the past.

"So what's happening?" Clara asked.

"They're on the rampage, that is all I know. One, at least. Possibly more." The Administrator sounded embarrassed. "Highly irregular. But the lock down is in full effect so please, do not worry. Your delegation will be safe in here."

"Rampage?" Ashildr asked, incredulous. "That doesn't sound like the Judoon."

The Administrator blanched. "The regulations are very clear. We must stay here until the threat has passed. I assure you all, we will be perfectly safe."

"Yeah, we might be," Clara said, nodding to Ashildr, “but what about everyone out there?”

Swiftly, the duo started to case the room for another exit. “There's got to be another way out somewhere around here,” Clara said to her companion as she pulled one of the curtains lining the walls to the side. “We can't just sit here and -” She broke off abruptly and stumbled back.

 _Oh_.

There, hidden behind the curtain, stood the TARDIS. It shone brightly in the lights of the room, seeming to tower above her. _His TARDIS_ **_._ ** She had never seen the ship look more magnificent. And there was that electric buzz again, ringing across her skin and making the hairs on the back of her neck and along her arms stand to attention. Unbidden, Clara reached forward with her left hand and gently stroked the wooden door.

“Clara, no.” Ashildr said, stepping forward.

“Hello, old girl.” Clara murmured before wrenching her hand back down to her side, her fingers tingling at the loss. She looked at Ashildr, knowing her eyes were impossibly wide. “We need to find another way out of here.”

With some considerable effort, she stepped away from the TARDIS and back into the centre of the room where the Aechon and the Administrator were huddled together as though they could protect themselves from the adventurous whims of the two crazed women they'd had the great misfortune to get trapped with during this time of crisis. Clara eyed what looked like an air vent in the ceiling. It was a cliché but sometimes clichés were so for a reason. A glance to Ashildr told Clara she had reached the same conclusion. _How to get up there?_ She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the sonic sunglasses. Popping them on, she gazed up at what seemed to be the main vent and thought, somewhat vaguely, _open sesame_. There was a metallic click and, before she knew what was happening, something heavy plummeted from the vent, crashed down on top of her and thudded painfully to the floor, crying out.

“Clara!” She dimly heard Ashildr yell.

She recovered quickly once she reminded herself that she wasn't actually winded or in pain. The sonic sunglasses were askew on her face, so Clara frustratedly pulled them off and tried to slide out from under the wriggling weight that still held her fast. As the glasses came off, she found herself with a nose full of frantically curly grey hair. It was soft, it tickled the skin of her top lip and, seemingly unable to control herself, she found herself taking a deep breath to inhale an all too familiar scent. That was just before his bony knee dug into her thigh as he scrambled to get up.

“Doctor, are you okay?” A voice came from up in the ventilation shaft. Clara squinted up and saw a concerned face looking down at them. She struggled to place Anahson at first – she was a few years older than when they had last met – but knew she was right when she saw a matching flash of recognition in the young Janus' eyes. The Doctor managed to get to his feet and flung his arm down towards her, extending his hand apologetically. 

She hesitated before reaching up to grab it, her mind whirling. _It was him, it was him._ She fought the urge to flee as her brain reminded her that she would never kick the habit of adrenaline. _Destiny,_ she thought. The chance to hold his hand again? She'd have to be an idiot to not take it, even if it made everything harder later on. He pulled her up with ease and Clara suddenly found herself stood in his personal space again, after all this time. It felt right. She'd missed this. She couldn't help herself as she turned her face up to his and smiled as confused blue eyes met her own and held her gaze.

“I'm fine, Anahson.” _That voice_. “Stay up there for a moment.”

“Well, there's not really any way to get down without breaking anything so...”

The Doctor looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. He didn't seem to realise that he was still holding on tightly to the hand of the woman who had broken his fall. “Sorry to drop in unannounced,” he joked, nodding to the horrified Aechon delegation. “You know me, I'll fall for anything. But! This is no time for jokes.” He eyed Clara seriously, eyes twinkling. “We cannot underestimate the gravity of the situation.”

He opened his mouth as if to continue but stopped, noticing for the first time that he was still clutching her hand. He frowned, grasping her by the wrist and turning her hand over. _Something was off_. Clara stuttered back a cough as he ran his thumb over the raven on the inside of her wrist. Her throat tightened.

“What...” His voice sounded impossibly low and Clara knew she had to step away, now. She disentangled herself in a rush, looking everywhere but at him. Thankfully, Ashildr had managed to pull herself together and chose that moment to step forward.

“Doctor.”

“Me.” He scowled but couldn't exactly recall why he had such mixed feelings about seeing the immortal girl again. He decided he was probably over whatever it was and settled on a mildly creepy smile instead. “What are you doing here?” 

“We're brokering the Aechon Grain Treaty. But never mind that – what's happening with the Judoon?”

“Oh yes!” The Doctor burst into life, rushing over to the TARDIS to unlock the door as though he'd forgotten why he had been scrambling around in the vents in the first place. “That's just a little misunderstanding. Someone may have accidentally discovered a control subroutine in their armour suits and...unintentionally _enchanced_ it a bit.”

There was a squeaking and metallic rattling from up in the vents as Anahson tried to shimmy forward. “Doctor, how many do we have?” She called. The Doctor had disappeared into the TARDIS but the door was still swung open as clattering, banging and scraping noises, accompanied by the occasional gruff babbling filled the air. Clara took the opportunity to compose herself; she walked over to Ashildr and shared a concerned look. The other woman gave her elbow a quick squeeze of solidarity.

The Administrator decided it was time to reassert some control over the room. “Sir, I trust you have the appropriate papers to be navigating our ducts in such a manner?” He called into the TARDIS, as he tried to peer around the door. “This area is in lock down. You are not supposed to leave your quarantined zone.” The weedy man scuttled backwards to half hide behind the Aechon High Councillor as the Doctor loomed out of the TARDIS, pulling a large box.

“Who are you, again?” The Doctor asked, his lip curling in a snarl. Without waiting for a response, he darted back into the TARDIS and brought out a ladder. He carried it over to the air vent and carefully lent it against the opening. The Administrator flustered and pretended he had some urgent business back over by the communication panel.

“What can we do to help?” Ashildr stepped forward as The Doctor crouched down to get some items out of the box. He glanced up at Anahson, who nodded.

“We need to round up the affected Judoon,” he explained. “They're not responsible for their actions but they're dangerous, very dangerous. One had its armour corrupted, giving it orders to become an assassin. When I tried to trace the signal, some kind of failsafe triggered and the order passed on to all the other Judoon in the radius...” He ran a weary hand through his hair and Clara could sense he was feeling guilty. She wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault but, with a glance up to where his current companion was patiently waiting, she knew that wasn't her role any more. “Apart from the original target is already dead so now they're a bit confused and...shooty.”

“So what's the plan?” Clara asked before she could stop herself. The Doctor looked at her and tilted his head to the side, curious. He held up one of the items he'd pulled from the box: it was a stolen traffic sign from Earth emblazoned with the words 'NO ENTRY'.

“Okay, not exactly what I was expecting,” Clara said, bemused.

“The Judoon are sticklers for rules,” Ashildr said, getting the plan quickly. “They adhere to the law to the point of pedantry so they will yield to these signs, assuming they’re not completely corrupted. And then what?”

“We're wasting time standing around here chit-chatting,” the Doctor breezed in a tone that Clara knew meant he had absolutely no idea what his endgame was. “But we could use your help. The sooner we get them rounded up, the better. There's an awful lot of innocent people in harm's way.” He climbed the ladder and started passing some of the signs up to Anahson.

“Of course we'll help.” Ashildr turned to the Aechon. “I hope you don't mind, High Councillor. We'll return with you once we're done. Please, stay safe in here for now. We'll let you know when you can go home.” The Aechon, with their unwieldy bodies, would be next to useless even attempting to climb a ladder. The High Councillor bowed to Ashildr respectfully.

“I shall remain to keep watch over the delegation.” The Administrator declared, grandly.

Ashildr was already half way up the ladder, following The Doctor into the vent. Clara looked back at the Aechon as she waited to ascend. “Oh, Administrator, I wouldn't expect anything less.” With a deep breath, Clara started to climb the ladder. Part of her was screaming that by joining in this adventure with the Doctor she was about to make a grave mistake and seriously jeopardise everything they had agreed upon on Gallifrey - her hand trembled as she moved it up to the next rung - another part of her, however, by far and away the bigger part, couldn’t stop the excited grin that seemed to have plastered itself across her face.

 _Bring it on_.

* * *

 


	2. Once Something is Lost

* * *

_“Once something is done it has always been done, once something is lost it can never be won.”_

Concrete Pigeon – Kate Tempest, Sound of Rum (ft. Polar Bear)

* * *

The corridor they dropped into was thankfully deserted. The Doctor threw the traffic signs through the vent and jumped down first, after much grumbling and elbowing to manoeuvre past Anahson. He stood directly underneath, reaching up to catch his smaller companions in order to lessen their fall. Clara waited as Ashildr brushed herself off and stepped out of the way. The Doctor reached up and gestured for her to lower herself down. Clara turned around in the vent, swinging her legs out of the hole. She shimmied back and allowed herself to hang by her arms. _Time travel does wonders for your upper body strength_. She felt the Doctor's hands close around her hips and let him take her weight. She felt his breath on the back of her neck, her back scrape against his chest and the firm dig of his long fingers as she slid down his body on the way to the ground. His hands stayed on her hips, cool and comforting, as he made sure she'd found her feet. Clara briefly allowed herself a moment to enjoy their semi-embrace before the Doctor stepped away and indicated that the group should make their way to the end of the corridor where a bank of transporters awaited.

She needed to get her act together and focus; mooning around like a schoolgirl wasn't going to get them out of their predicament. _Rampaging Judoon, not hormones_ she repeated to herself, dropping into a crouch and creeping along with the others until they were gathered together behind a low wall. The Doctor stuck his head around and made sure the coast was clear.

"We're going to need to split up," whispered Anahson. "There's no way we can round them up unless we do."

"Take these," The Doctor showed them four earpieces that Clara recognised from their run in with The Fisher King. When had he stolen those? "This way we can co-ordinate.  We're going to have to go from section to section -"

A blast rumbled from beyond the heavy doors at the end of the corridor. Instinctively, all four of them ducked. Ashildr grabbed her earpiece from the Doctor as he ran the sonic over it.

"Section to section," the Doctor continued, hurriedly. He swiped his hand over the nearby display panel and scrolled through until he brought up an enlarged map of the facility. "The Judoon guards are only stationed on the public parallel, thank goodness, but they're posted across each quadrant so we need to try bring them _here,_ "  He pointed at a circle in the centre of the map. “The Central Hub Café. We've only got a handful of ‘no entry’ signs, so we need to bait and switch to bring them further in.”

"Meeting rooms will be deadlocked like ours was," Ashildr added. "So we don't have to worry about those.”

The Doctor nodded. "Try to distract them from attacking anyone, they'll go after us if we look like a threat so we'll use that to our advantage. We'll split into two teams..." He handed Clara her earpiece last, catching her eye and giving her a quick, serious smile. The familiarity of the gesture made her automatically grin back.

"Sorry, what's your name?" ...And the grin quickly faded.

"...Oswald." Clara could feel Ashildr's eyes burning into her as she distracted herself by putting her ear piece in place. A burst of static made her wince.

"Okay, you and Anahson take the South quadrant first.  Me..." the Doctor raised a wry eyebrow, "you're with...me.” The Doctor scoped out the corridor again. “We're going to the Café and clearing it of anyone we find who's hiding there. Wouldn't do to send a whole Judoon platoon...Can we all pretend I didn't just say that?”

He spun the map around and zoomed in to show how the public parallel was divided into four quadrants that circled the inner hub of the café; North, South, East and West. “Between each quadrant are blast doors but the Judoon can pass through. The idea is we override the doors, lead the Judoon through one way, slap on a sign to stop them from doubling back...”

“And send the survivors through to the cleared sections,” Clara finished, catching on. “Easier said than done. How do we make the Judoon head the right way?”

The Doctor leaned forward, a grim look on his face but secretly impressed with this intriguing woman’s attitude. “Superior technology. It's what they'll hopefully be scanning for as part of their standard search procedure. We lure them to us one section at a time then use the signs to seal off the sections they've left. Move the survivors to those as we go.” He held up his sonic screwdriver. “We're going to use this.”

It was Anahson's turn to look confused. “But we've only got one sonic...”

“ _She_ is going to use the sonic sunglasses she's carrying in her jacket pocket.” the Doctor said, eyeing Clara with a hint of suspicion. “I'm all about wearable technology.”

Ashildr touched the Doctor's arm. “So we get a hoard of beserking Judoon and put them in a confined space. What then?”

“I've no idea. I was kind of hoping that would come to me as we went along.” He at least had the grace to look sheepish. “I'm sure I'll think of something brilliant at the last minute.”

* * *

Anahson and Clara blinked in the dark as the transporter rematerialised them in the Southern Quadrant. Something had knocked out the lights. There was a smell of stale smoke in the air. Clara gripped onto Anahson's arm before the young woman could step out into the main plaza.

"Wait." She said, quietly.

A large shadow lumbered by somewhere ahead of them, grunting. They strained to listen. Off in the distance, a woman was sobbing. Slowly, deliberately, Clara inched forward, pulling the young Janus with her. She sidestepped with her back to the wall, feeling the way with one hand. Something electrical fizzed sparks above them and they froze. Across the opposite side of the plaza, a fire burned and crackled on the ground. Clara hoped there hadn't been anyone in the way of that blast.

The sobbing woman reduced her cries to muffled whimpers as Clara tried to get her bearings. To the right, she could hear the metallic stomping of one of the Judoon. It seemed pre-occupied but she wasn't entirely sure whether that was a good thing or not. She squeezed Anahson's arm a little tighter and leaned in.

"I can barely see anything," Clara hissed, frowning. Finding huddled survivors in the pitch black was going to take time and the Doctor and Ashildr were waiting to hear from them. But if she put her sonic sunglasses on now and used the night vision setting, the Judoon would be upon them... Frozen with indecision, she started slightly as Anahson pulled away and reverently removed her hood. Fascinated, Clara watched as her second face animated, coming to life. Clara slowly circled the Janus as the expression on her front face became glazed, focusing on something that was beyond normal human perception.

Anahson took a deep shuddering breath as she felt the fears of the fifteen hiding visitors and workers of the Shadow Proclamation wash over her. The fear bristled like a thousand hot microscopic needles being slowly, gradually pushed through her skin. Mixed in with the fear were a myriad of other emotions, inextricably linked with the pasts and futures of them all. Anahson tried to gloss over those as much as possible, attempted to channel her ability as her mother had taught her. She still felt overwhelmed.

"I can feel them," Anahson heard herself whisper. It was as though she was speaking across a echoing ballroom, her voice disembodied. "They're scared."

"Not surprising. Where are they?" Clara asked. Anahson felt herself turning to face her, unable to fully control her own movements. The worried Human’s face fritzed in and out of the aura field. Clara Oswald. Clara Oswald, whose past and future were as unreadable as the Doctor's, save for one thing; a high-pitched discordant note that rang and fluctuated and rippled, out of place and lost, yellow and shimmering. It was the thread that tied her past to her ever-expanding future and, while Anahson had never quite experienced anything like it before, she suspected the thread was beginning to unravel. She almost wanted to look away, but her abilities were piqued and she couldn’t stop them from trying to decipher.

Clara shifted uncomfortably under Anahson's gaze. It was like the young woman was no longer present and much older, wiser eyes were watching her with horror. "What? What is it?" She asked, unsettled. Anahson leaned forward, her voice taking on the soft, lyrical quality Clara had heard once before all that time ago on Trap Street.

"He needs you," the Janus said. "And you need him. Now more than ever."

Clara flushed, not quite sure how to respond. "It's not really that simple..." she stuttered, trying to steady her voice. She couldn’t help but swallow against the rising bubble of hope that warred with the hollow, gnawing dread taking up residence in her throat. Her mind raced, but Clara was acutely aware that this was probably the least convenient time and place for them both to be so distracted. She bit her lip to hold her questions at bay and grasped Anahson’s elbows lightly to support the dazed woman as her weight sagged forwards. Clara squinted into the darkness as she heard the tell-tale shuffle thump of heavy armour moving towards them. Was that another Judoon lurking in the dark?

“Anahson,” Clara cleared her throat and shook the other woman slightly. “We need to get to the survivors... _please_.” Anahson came round a little, her expression clearing. She pointed over to the middle of the room where tall columns in the central garden of the plaza provided at least some cover.

“Over there,” she said. “There are six by the columns, the rest are along the back wall. There are two injured…” she grimaced, “and one dead.”

“Could you tell how badly injured?”

“Well enough to walk.” Anahson replied.

An unexpectedly close grunt made them both freeze.  “How about well enough to run?” Clara grabbed Anahson’s hand and pulled her down into a walking crouch, her other hand extended in front of her to feel for any obstacles. They had left the safety of the wall and Clara hadn’t realised quite how far they’d strayed. She whipped her head around, trying to spot something that could tell her which direction was safest. Glimpsing the amber light of the Eastern blast door, she tugged Anahson toward it; they stood a much better chance of saving anyone if they knew where the hell they -

A sudden flash of red in her peripheral vision and Clara lunged to the ground, knocking Anahson off her feet and crashing down on top of her. The blast singed the air where their heads had been and a metallic smell wafted down in a thin cloud of smoke. The shot flared as it hit the wall, a thundering _whoosh_ in the otherwise silent plaza. Anahson, winded, gasped for air but Clara quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, brown eyes wide in warning. Anahson stared back as she realised what was happening: a loud, lumbering thud followed almost immediately by a second, accompanied by a porcine roar - the Judoon had honed in on their position and was charging toward them.

* * *

The Doctor winced as he and Ashildr rematerialised in the kitchen of the Central Hub Café. There was something about short range transportation he just didn’t enjoy anymore. Even less so when the emergency lighting, beyond bright and strobing erratically, was clearly on the blink. He scowled and squinted against the unnatural glare. Ashildr stepped out of the transporter and immediately clamped her hands over her ears, her face contorted in pain as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“What?” The Doctor asked, concerned although it accidentally came out as annoyed.

“Make it stop!” Ashildr pleaded, unable to move. The Doctor looked at her, confused. And then he heard the noise of the alarm system. It registered at a very high pitch - not something that would be a problem with Time Lord physiology but would undoubtedly cause a human a great deal of pain. _Ouch_. He scanned the ceiling for a detector or access point. Spotting a receiver close to the sprinkler system, he held up his sonic screwdriver and twiddled the settings to oscillate at the right frequency. The sound stopped and the lights returned to normal.

Ashildr looked at the Doctor, her hands still covering her ears. He waved his hand in her general direction to let her know it was safe and immediately started looking around the large kitchen for anything that might be useful. He peered into a silicon bowl that had been abandoned mid-stir. He stuck his finger in and scraped it around, then jammed the digit in his mouth. His face scrunched up and he wagged his tongue about in the air trying to get rid of the awful taste.

“Ugh! I take back everything I’ve said about this place, the chef has faulty tastebuds.”

The kitchen was spotless and surrounded by work benches that had all been abandoned in various stages of food prep. Ashildr spotted exotic ingredients she hadn’t seen for years, things she could only dream of managing to get the TARDIS to fabricate. She was fairly tempted to follow the Doctor’s lead and sample everything but they had a job to do. Also, as she looked out of the windows that allowed the kitchen to be viewed by its patrons, she noticed that a group of scared, angry-looking survivors were staring at them.

“Doctor.” She called over her shoulder, not bothering to look at him - she knew he’d probably already clocked them as soon as they had arrived. She wondered why there was always this song and dance with him. Ashildr sighed. _He’s the Doctor_. She reminded herself that he didn’t know how much older than him she was. If the neural block was doing its job, their meeting at the end of the universe would have been erased, so closely connected was her presence and his ill-fated attempt to escape with Clara. But Ashildr could tell that something lingered, some fragment of distrust.

The Doctor scampered over to the window, a large metal spoon hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Oh, right.” He garbled around whatever he was trying. It looked like raspberry couli. “Follow my lead.” With that, he unlocked the door between the kitchen and the café with his screwdriver and stepped through, pulling the spoon out of his mouth and waving it in the air dramatically as he addressed the room.

“Everyone stay calm! Stay calm and shut up. At the same time, ideally. I don’t want anyone being calmly loud or silently panicking.” A dozen bewildered faces stared back at him. None of the survivors spoke. Ashildr stepped in line with the Doctor, rolling her eyes. He paused briefly, thrown off balance by the lack of questions and noise.

“...Excellent. Good work.” He began to stride around the room, noting the chairs and tables stacked against the four doors that separated the quadrants from the café. They’d need to get those cleared if the plan was going to even remotely work. He indicated to Ashildr and they began to make their way over to the door marked ‘South Quadrant’. It was at that moment that a tall, domineering woman stepped forward. She had short red hair, blazing yellow eyes. The Doctor had forgotten what the name of her species was but she definitely looked…

“It’s you!” She accused, pointing one of her seven clawed fingers at him. _Ah, this was slightly more familiar territory._ He spun around on his heel and turned to face the group as they seemingly rallied behind her. His eyebrows went on the defensive.

“Yes, it’s me. And this is Me, and you’re you. Congratulations! Now, if you don’t mind I’ve got to round up some Judoon and save the day. We can all play a game of  ‘Guess Who’ later.”

The woman turned to the group, still pointing at the Doctor. “He’s the one I was telling you about! In the courtroom. He’s the one who set the Judoon on us in the first place.” As one, the group took a step forward towards them that was so hostile in intent that Ashildr felt compelled to grab the Doctor’s arm.

“Oh please,” the Doctor scoffed. “You shouldn’t go around listening to rumours. I’m not the one who programmed the Judoon. I’m the sous chef.” He gesticulated over his shoulder to the kitchen. Ashildr winced at the lie, not least because the group of survivors clearly contained several members of the kitchen staff. She braced herself as she felt the ire in the room skyrocket. Nervously, she fingered her earpiece. What was keeping Clara and Anahson?

It was then that they heard the blaster fire coming from behind the South Door.

* * *

Clara braced herself, making sure she was covering as much of Anahson as she could. She scrunched her eyes shut as the Judoon thundered to a halt right next to them. With a static whirr, she felt the guard’s scanner work its way over her head, her back. It tingled, putting every nerve on edge. She felt it pass back up and then the noise stopped. She tensed. What the bloody hell would happen if she died here on the Shadow Proclamation instead of on the Trap Street via the extraction chamber on Gallifrey? Was it even possible? She had a brief vision of the universe imploding, of everyone that ever was or ever could be blinking out of existence. Of the Doctor, feeling it somehow, sensing it coming and disappointedly realising in that moment that she had become the very thing he had forgotten her to avoid. _Look how far I went, for fear of losing you._ How far had she gone for fear of losing out on one more adventure, and another, and one more for luck? And, let’s be honest, for fear of losing out on the small possibility that she might serendipitously run into him again.

Hang on a minute.

Hang on a cotton picking minute.

She opened one eye, saw Anahson gaping up at her. Clara felt a brief burst of embarrassment. Not dead, then. Or, at least, no more dead than she had been to begin with. _Oh!_ _Of course!_ The Judoon had scanned her and not found any vital signs. They would hardly waste their energy blasting someone who was already functionally dead. She heard the Judoon muttering to each other, their simple vowel-littered language bouncing off the columns in the centre of the cavernous room. Clara held herself still and, slowly but surely, the two Judoon lumbered away. She felt Anahson heave a sigh of relief. Gradually, Clara raised into a crouch, giving the young Janus the chance to move away and gather the three dropped ‘no entry’ signs from the floor.

“Give me two of those,” Clara intoned, holding out her hand, “and get to the columns. Keep the survivors there quiet.”

“Clara -” Clara’s eyes snapped to meet Anahson’s. It felt strange to be addressed by her real name by someone other than Ashildr. “That’s not the plan.” Anahson finished lamely.

“New information. We’re adapting. I can lead them away but if they can’t scan me, they can’t kill me.” Clara gave her best reassuring smile. “Stay put until the coast is clear then get in touch with the Doctor, okay?” Clara grabbed onto the signs and reached into her jacket pocket for her sonic sunglasses. She slid the glasses on and gave the startled Anahson a grin, feeling faintly indestructible. With a tell-tale whirr, the night vision setting kicked in and Clara took off towards the Eastern blast door at a run. The Judoon, with their ultra sensitive hearing, immediately started scanning in her direction as she lead them away from the survivors.

Anahson ran softly over to the central columns and ducked behind the first one she reached, holding out a hand to silence a terrified and quivering Tivolian janitor as she peeked out as far as she could dare. A blast rang out. She saw the vague silhouette of Clara, briefly lit by weapons’ fire as she reached the blast door at full pelt. Anahson held her breath as she willed the doors to open - the Judoon were giving chase, gaining speed, their heads down in a full charge, what little light there was reflecting off their black armour.

They closed in on Clara, who had come to a screeching halt in front of the doors and was quickly punching in the Doctor’s manual override code. Anahson sent up a prayer to the old Gods as she saw the amber light flash rapidly and then finally, wonderfully, turn green. The door churned upwards and Clara dove underneath it, rolling through to the other side. Sparks pinged from the door as the blasters failed to hit their target and her view of Clara was all of a sudden obscured by a haze of smoke. The door opened fully just as the two Judoon charged through and then, with a bleep and a whirr, it slammed shut again. The lights above the control panel returned to their original colour and the Southern Quadrant fell quiet.

“Please, please,” a nasal voice whimpered from the darkness. Anahson squinted at the Tivolian as he supplicated himself at her feet. “We unequivocally surrender! We are your subjects for you to debase as you wish.”

“You need to stay here,” she commanded and then rose her voice to address the plaza. “Everyone! It’s safe - the Judoon won’t be coming back to this section - but you must stay here until I tell you otherwise. We will try and get the lights back on but please just stay where you are. There’s a plan in action to get everything back to normal.”

A young Silurian woman, dressed in punkish clothes with rings pierced through the toughened skin of her face stepped forward. She carried around her neck the tell-tale biometric pass of a Shadow Proclamation employee.

“How can I help?”

Anahson smiled gratefully and tugged carefully on her hood to make sure it was back in place. Better if people didn’t realise they were being helped by a Janus; it sometimes made them feel uncomfortable, to say the least.

“We could do with the power being restored, if we can. And there are injured… But right now I need to seal the West Door.” She bent and picked up the final ‘no entry’ sign and cast her eyes around the darkness for the lights of the second blast door. It was right at the other side of the plaza. She would have to pick her way across carefully, mindful not to trip over any debris.

“What will happen to the one you were with?” The Silurian asked, astutely.

“Surely she has been destroyed by the mighty Judoon.” Simpered the Tivolian, earning a glare from both of the women.

“She will be fine,” answered Anahson, hoping she sounded a lot more confident than she felt.

* * *

“Everybody just stop!” Ashildr inserted herself between the Doctor and the increasingly angry survivors. She had just about had enough. “We do not have time for this childish nonsense.”

The Doctor chewed on his finger as he moved away. “She started it,” he muttered, under his breath. The tall annoying one - _Plebusian, that was it! She was a Plebusian!_ \- moved further forward, sneering. Ashildr gave him a look as though he had just proved her point. He carefully quashed the guilt that came from knowing that the mob were right to blame him and tried to focus on what to do next. That blast hadn’t sounded good. There are been a few more, some loud thuds, but now everything was quiet.

A fizz of static sounded in his ear and he looked at Ashildr, telling from her reaction that she had heard it too. He activated his earpiece by tapping it with his finger.

“Anahson? Are you okay?”

There was a pause and then he breathed an audible sigh of relief as his companion’s voice reverberated in his ear. “Yes, I’m fine. The South Quadrant is clear but it’s a bit of a mess. We’re in the dark here, I think they’ve damaged the power coupling -”

“Well that doesn’t matter, what do they even need lights for anyway? This is an evacuation, not a holiday camp.”

“There are injured people, Doctor. Scared people.” Anahson sounded a little appalled. The Doctor ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t understand why he kept missing the obvious. He normally blazed through situations like this, barely taking the time to enjoy his surroundings as he righted wrongs. But as soon as he had arrived at the Shadow Proclamation everything he had tried to do had backfired. There was this creeping pain growing between the centre of his eyes that, if he didn’t know Time Lord physiology better, he would say was the beginning of the mother of all migraines. He felt Ashildr’s gaze boring into him.

“Oswald, what do you think?” The former Viking asked into the air. The Plebusian turned to face her, pointedly avoiding the Doctor.

“Is this your big rescue plan? Stand around dithering until the Judoon find us and kill us all?” She folded her arms across her chest.

Ashildr pressed her finger into her earpiece again, doing her best to focus on the matter at hand.

“Oswald?”

“Hi, hi!” There was a lot of background noise. “Bit busy right now.” There was a crash and a clattering. It sounded like she was competing in an obstacle course.

Anahson spoke up: “Cl...Oswald, are you okay?”

Ashildr looked over to the Doctor. “They’re not together?” He needed to stop recruiting humans (and Janus, add the Janus to the list) to help him, the Doctor decided. They were far too fond of improvisation.

“Change of plan,” Clara was whispering now, matter of factly. “Look, I’ve cleared the East section, there’s not too much damage - send the survivors through there. Anahson, you there?”

“Yes -”

“Hang on. Shush.” It went quiet on the earpieces for a moment.

The Doctor turned to face the huddled survivors. “You lot. You need to head through that door over there. You’ll be safe in there.” He spread his arms out and began to herd the small group in the direction of the East door. The Plebusian woman made as if to object. “Ach, no. This isn’t one of those situations where you argue. This is one where you shut up and do as you’re told.”

“How dare you?!” She spluttered.

“You said it yourself,” the Doctor said, “it’s my fault you’re in this position in the first place. You’ve complained about that. Now I’m trying to do something to fix it and you’re complaining about that. There’s no winning with you, is there? I bet you’re the kind of person who terrorises call centres.”

A burly chef laid his hand on the Plebusian’s arm. “Delores, I think we should do as he says. I say we get as far away from this lunatic as we can.”

“But we were safe in here!”

“Well, in a few moments this place is going to be Judoon Central so I’d probably scram if I were you.” The Doctor pulled the East Door open with a wicked grin. He jumped slightly with surprise: Anahson stood at the other side her hand raised to knock. The Doctor quickly looked around the plaza, noting the scorch marks on the walls. Otherwise, the space was surprisingly intact. He noted a small group huddled against the far wall, one young boy nursing an injured shoulder. Other survivors were streaming through from the Southern and Northern blast doors. He felt a tangible sense of relief as some of his guilt subsided.

“Making friends?” Anahson asked as she peeked into the café and saw the unmistakable signs of a classic standoff.

Clara’s voice rang out across the communicators again. “Okay, I’m coming in hot. West Quadrant door to the hub. I need it opening - _now_.”

Ashildr ran across to the other side of the hub as the Doctor practically shoved the reluctant group towards Anahson. “She’ll look after you, from here. Please fill in your customer experience surveys at the end of the incursion. Rose -” He blocked the Janus from entering the café. She frowned and tried to push past. He shook his head. “Stay in there. I’ll come and get you once the coast is clear.”

“But -” The Doctor kindly, but firmly closed the door in her face and activated the lock with his sonic screwdriver. _Anahson_ , he suddenly realised. _Anahson, not Rose_. Distracted, he half heard the conversation that was taking place between Ashildr and Clara over the communicators.

“When you say coming in hot…” Ashildr began to ask.

“As in, all of the Judoon.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“What part of you thinks I’m available for a chat right now?”

The Doctor couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at that, even though he was ordinarily against banter in all its forms.

“Doctor. Doctor!” He looked across to see Ashildr watching him with a furrowed brow. Her fingers were splayed against the metal of a large unit blocking the West Door. “Help me with this, will you?”

Between them, they managed to push the unit aside. The Doctor flung the door open and stuck his head out into the Western Quadrant. To the left, he could see the door Anahson must have blocked, its ‘no entry’ sign looking anachronistic amongst the chrome and crystal. Something to the right crashed to the floor and grabbed his attention. The human, Oswald, rounded the corner, running so fast that her legs staggered briefly under her own momentum. She looked tiny compared to her pursuers, with one of her hands was holding her sonic sunglasses in place as though they were slightly too large to be trusted to stay on by themselves. Something in his chest constricted painfully as he noticed how the Judoon guards were gaining on her. He felt, rather than saw, Ashildr stand next to him.

“Oswald, this way!” She shouted.

The Doctor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  He suddenly had a plan. For the first time in a long time, probably longer than he cared to admit, he felt like himself again. That rush of adrenaline, that certainty he was going to win. And of course, he’d been a complete idiot not to think of it sooner.

He ran towards Oswald, ducking as a couple of blasts shot harmlessly over his head. Thank goodness the Judoon were so confused, their aim had become hopeless. He grabbed Oswald by the arm and pulled her the last hundred yards, guiding her to the doors and through into the Central Hub. He saw Ashildr dive for cover and heard the thunderous smashing of armour as the ten Judoon tried desperately to fit through the narrow doorway three abreast. The delay bought them the little bit of time he needed.

“Cover your ears!” He shouted over his shoulder to Ashildr. Still clinging to Oswald, he dragged her into the kitchen. Holding his screwdriver aloft, he indicated the sensor panel he had deactivated earlier and the sprinkler system next to it. He looked down at her, surprised to see her grinning, enjoying this as much as he was. He saw his own face reflected in her shades as he tried to catch her eyes.

“Think _amplify_ ,” he ordered as the last of the Judoon stormed into the cafe, disoriented now their prey had disappeared. Clara squinted with concentration as she activated the sonic sunglasses. At the same time, the Doctor’s screwdriver hummed and whirred a low whistle. The sound of ten blasters firing simultaneously rang out  just as the alarm reactivated, screeching across the whole of the facility. The glass windows of the kitchen imploded, launching tiny shards of glass towards them as one of them or both of them, it was hard to tell, slammed the other to the ground. A fragment of a second later, the sprinkler system kicked in, dousing the entire cafe with gallons of cold water.

* * *

The first thing Clara became aware of was the godawful noise. The second was the freezing water dripping onto her face and seeping through her jeans. The third was the Doctor, kneeling over her, his hands cupped firmly over her ears. He was breathing harshly, water trickling off his nose and chin, eyes wide and a series of small cuts peppering his face. His sodden jacket was fisted in her right hand and her left leg was somehow curled around his right thigh, entangled from when they’d tackled each other.

With an apologetic look, he moved his hands away and the wailing of the alarm increased, piercing her skull. She flinched and clamped her own hands over her ears to try to block the noise, grimacing in pain. It was as though a pneumatic drill was being used to remove her brain. Abruptly, the sound stopped and the temporary silence, save for the dripping of the water from the now spent sprinkler system, was at first almost as painful. Experimentally, Clara tried moving her exhausted legs. She suspected she’d beaten her personal best for the 5km in her race around the quadrants with the Judoon hot on her trail. Whilst she didn’t necessarily feel the physical burn, she definitely felt her energy levels drop. She stopped moving and breathed out, taking a second to compose herself.

She felt gentle fingers remove the sonic sunglasses from her face. She blinked up into the artificial lights that haloed the Doctor as he tilted his head and regarded her seriously. A lump rose in her throat. She had never really considered before how fondly he had always watched her. His eyes weren’t the choppy storm of warring emotions she was used to seeing but there were still wonders in those depths. _This was too much_. She struggled to sit up, extremely conscious that their position was possibly a little too intimate for her to be enjoying if she was supposed to be a stranger to him.

“Are you okay?” He asked, keeping his voice low. It shot through her core. _Danger, Will Robinson_.

“I will be. You?” They still hadn’t moved much. Clara’s sitting position had the unintended consequence of bringing their faces only a few inches apart. Her eyes roamed his features of their own volition, worriedly taking in the cuts and noticing for the first time how tired he looked, how drawn. She glanced back up to his eyes. They were fixated on her lips, his pupils suddenly dark. Clara froze in shock. She felt her face flush and inwardly cursed as her traitorous tongue slipped out to wet them without her express permission. The Doctor made a small sound in the back of his throat and Clara’s resolve snapped. _To hell with it_ . _We deserve this, even if he doesn’t know it_. She leaned in, his breath ghosting warmly across her skin.

“Oswald?” _Shit_. Ashildr scrambled into the kitchen, kicking some of the debris out of the way. She stilled as she took in the scene in front of her. The Doctor leaped to his feet gracelessly, half falling over again as he tripped over Clara’s leg.

“Did it work?” His voice sounded a little strained. Clara avoided Ashildr’s accusing glare as she struggled to her feet, feeling cold as the movement sent rivulets of water adventuring places it was probably not lady-like to mention.

“If you mean ‘are the Judoon all unconscious on the floor’, then yes.” Ashildr retorted, looking damp and furious. “What on earth was that?”

The Doctor ran his hands through his hair to try to wring out some of the water. He risked a quick glance at the woman he was fairly certain he had just been about to kiss, apropos of nothing. Why were his hands trembling? He could feel that headache growing behind his eyes again, just as he thought he had scared it away.

“That, Me, was a piece of ingenious reprogramming. Hopefully.” He injected as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could muster, clapping his hands together and practically skipping out of the kitchen to view his handiwork. He missed the nonverbal argument that was taking place between the two travelling companions behind him.

“Leave it, Ashildr.” Clara said, her voice taking on a warning tone.

They stepped into the café again and Clara took a moment to survey the scene: all ten Judoon were piled on the floor. Their armoured helmets open with their horned faces on display. A couple of them twitched as sparks of blue light flashed from within their suits. The Doctor walked amongst them, chewing his finger. With a heaving grunt, one of the Judoon attempted to get up, slipping on the wet floor but steadfastly trying again. The Doctor gestured for Ashildr and Clara to stay back, holding a hand out as he watched the guard’s progress.

“Time to see whether it worked or not,” he said, his eyes not straying from the struggling Judoon. “You might want to get behind something just in case.”

* * *

Anahson stared at the door. Still smarting from the Doctor’s summary dismissal - although logically, she knew he had ostensibly had her best interests at heart - she had done her job and made sure that the survivors were grouped together and getting the help they needed. And then she’d noticed what was housed in the Eastern Quadrant’s main plaza. She looked at the sign again.

REFUGEE HIGH COMMISSION

The department was deadlocked but she couldn’t tear herself away. Behind that door there would be files. Information. Answers to questions she had asked her mother over and over again without ever receiving a satisfactory response. Anahson wondered how the Doctor would respond if she asked his permission to access her own records. She hoped he would be supportive; he knew she was traumatised by her past, had even given her the opportunity to run from it with him when life had become too much outside of the Trap Street. But, she supposed, when you had a time machine it would be one thing to dig up information about your past and quite another to resist the temptation to visit it.

 _She didn’t want to visit it though. She just wanted answers._ That voice in her head was fairly persistent, not that it could do her any good. With a final, rueful glance at what could have been, Anahson prepared to rejoin the others.

“Were you a ‘fugee?” Anahson jumped. The Silurian punk, Reesha, was right at her shoulder and she hadn’t noticed.

“Yes.” She was too startled to lie.

“From where?”

“...I don’t really know.” That, at least, was the truth. Her mother had moved around so much after her indentured servitude and her subsequent escape, that Anahson wasn’t entirely sure where they had started. Certainly not on the Janus homeworld, that was for sure. Another question to add to the growing list.

“You think you’ve got a file in there?” Reesha nodded to the door.

Anahson gave a smile and shook her head. “Probably not. It was a long time ago.” _Give or take several hundred years_ , she added silently. “I should get in touch with the others…” Anahson made to move away, trying to drag herself back into the present - or the future, whichever way she wanted to look at it.

Reesha stopped her with a light hand on her elbow. “It’s all on the central database, you know,” she said, conversationally. “Records dating back from when the Commissioner’s Office first opened. I hear the Archivist is really good at her job. Maintains the database while dancing around to Silurian Thrash. She’s an excellent multitasker. Says so right on her CV.”

Anahson raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.” She felt a bit more confident flirting now that she was a time traveller; an unexpected benefit.

The Silurian winked. “When the lockdown has been lifted, meet me here. I think, for what you’ve done for us today, I could probably turn a blind eye to you accidentally accessing some classified files for a few minutes or so.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?” Anahson felt a rush of excitement. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Reesha replied. She lifted up the torn material of her distressed shirt and held up her wrist. A blue gem, embedded in her tough green skin, shone in the light. A marker that Anahson felt held some significance but had never seen before. She looked questioningly at Reesha.

“The Silurian Exodus,” Reesha explained before hastily covering her wrist again. She briefly looked lost in thought but soon grinned down at the young Janus. “Us ‘fugees gotta stick together.”

* * *

Ashildr heaved a sigh of relief as the Judoon guards stood to attention in front of the Doctor. She picked at the sticky material of her shirt where it clung damply to her skin. Her ears were still ringing from her exposure to the alarm and, frankly, she was getting more than a little hungry. Still, it could have been worse. She could have been blasted to smithereens by a stray shot or, graver still, she could have been two seconds later entering the kitchen earlier, enabling her erstwhile travelling companion in inadvertently ripping apart the fabric of time itself just because the Doctor had looked a little bit ‘Mr. Darcy’ after their drenching.

She schooled her features. She was trying to be patient and understanding, trying to help Clara through what was clearly a distressing time but she couldn’t avoid the feeling that this whole adventure was going to undo a year’s worth of encouraging her to move on. Ashildr had to remind herself that she had more loss and experience under her belt than Clara ever could; that perhaps being so accustomed to life continuing regardless was hardly a strength.

She walked over to where the Doctor was examining one of the baffled guards, running his sonic screwdriver over its armour. She glanced at Clara, who was sat on one of the tables, her legs dangling as she came down from her adrenaline high.

“So we’re safe? It’s done?” She sidled around the Doctor and observed the Judoon coolly.

He crouched down as he scanned the guard’s legs. Whatever the sonic was revealing with its bleeps and whirrs, he seemed satisfied with the results.

“No subroutines running in the armour, so yes - I’d say they’re not being controlled anymore.”

“So what happened, exactly?” Clara called over from her seat. She put her feet onto the table and wrapped her arms over her knees, trying to warm up.

“That I still need to find out. One corrupted guard, a failsafe of some sort. Hopefully, we should be able to trace the initial command and find out who’s turning Judoon into assassins.” He frowned, thoughtful. “We don’t even know anything about the victim.”

The East Door opened and Anahson quietly entered the room. The Doctor grinned and walked over to her, all bravado. “Told you I’d sort it all out! All it took was a soupçon of overly sensitive Judoon hearing, a blast of noise at an unbearable register to get them to open their helmets and a liberal dashing of sprinkler misuse to short out the subroutine… Easy really! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.”

Anahson had to smile at his enthusiasm. “There’s an administrator out there wanting to know if they can end the lockdown.” She indicated over her shoulder with her thumb. “Oh, and she wants to put in a complaint about you.”

“A complaint? What kind? A complaint to who?”

“Just a general...complaint.”

“Noted.” His tone suggested it was noted for a completely different reason.

Anahson cleared her throat a little. “I was wondering if Oswald would be able to help me with the survivors for a minute?”

Clara raised her eyebrows in surprise but jumped down from the table. “Sure.” She shared a quick look with Ashildr who nodded her assent. “We’ll meet up with you in a bit.” She carefully circled the Judoon and followed the Janus back out of the room.

Ashildr watched her go, a little antsy to get back to their TARDIS now the immediate threat had been resolved. They could do with spending as little time in the Doctor’s timestream as possible. She couldn’t claim to understand how it all worked but she very much doubted hanging out and having tea and biscuits was an option when the universe was at risk.

Once they had left, the Doctor faced Ashildr. “Looks as though we’ve got a bit of spare time, Lady Me. We can catch up.” His eyes glittered darkly. “Perhaps starting with why you’re travelling with someone whose physical functions have been time-locked.”

* * *

Anahson took Clara to a quiet section of the plaza, any pretense of helping the survivors immediately dropped. There was a metal bench next to a huge palm tree with leaves of such a vivid green that Clara suspected it wasn’t a naturally occurring shade. She sat down, grateful to give her legs another bit of a rest. A warm draft blew across her skin from somewhere up in the high ceiling and she felt a few stray strands separate themselves from the damp mess that was currently her hair.

Anahson did not sit down. She fidgeted. She toed the scorched charcoal of a blast mark on the ground, doodling patterns from the black line. Clara was suddenly struck by how young the Doctor’s new companion was. On Trap Street she had been little more than a girl and, as Clara regarded her now, she thought that maybe about five years had passed for Anahson since then. But there was no hiding the naivety and youth that glimmered in her eyes. Clara suddenly felt old, the heft of her adventures with the Doctor weighing down on her. She knew their story was reflected in her own gaze; the wonders, the losses, the terror, the joy, the love and the losses which at this point, let’s be honest, deserved a second mention.

“How long have you been travelling with him?” Clara asked, curious. She wanted to make sure, now that she felt herself being pulled away from him once more, that he would be okay. That he would be happy.

“Just over a year,” Anahson replied, a smile on her face.

“Full time?”

“More or less, I think.” Clara gave a wry smile at that, it was easy to lose track. Her mind sometimes boggled that she ever managed to give a single coherent lesson at Coal Hill, much less five days of them a week.

Anahson stopped toeing the ground and stared at Clara, her mouth open. She shut it again, opened it, hesitating. Clara felt something undefinable claw its way up from her belly and into her throat.

“Clara...What happened?” Anahson finally stuttered. “You were dead. I saw you die. I saw him carry your body…”

Clara held up a hand and looked away. There were some things she didn’t need to know, thank you very much. She bit back her tears as they sheened over her eyes, blurring her vision. _Wh_ _en would this hurt less?_ Not her death, never that. That, she could live with, she thought, pleased with the irony. But what it had done to him? That right there was probably the reason why death was supposed to be the end, so that the lucky ones who had shuffled off the mortal coil didn’t need to deal with the fall out.

“Sorry,” the other woman began, “I shouldn’t have…”

“Legitimate question.” Clara said, forcing her voice to be bright. “And, frankly, if you were travelling with him and _not_ asking me that, I’d be a bit worried.”

“He was looking for you,” Anahson interrupted, seemingly unable to hold the words in. “At least, I think he was. That’s how we met again. Three years after what had happened, he just wandered into Trap Street. Just after my mum died…”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” It was the Janus’ turn to look away.

“I was in a bit of a state. But I recognised him - not something you forget, really, what happened… Apart from _he had_. Forgotten you. The whole thing. How is that? Was it to do with where Mayor Me sent him? Is he ill?”

“God, it’s so hard to explain.” Clara laughed a little. She hadn’t had to put this into words yet, hadn’t needed to. She sighed out a big breath, more aware than ever that everything her body did was habit, a comfort for her mind. “Has he told you about fixed points in time?”

“I don’t think I’d pass an exam on them, but -” Anahson nodded, gesturing with her left hand. She finally worked up the courage to sit down next to Clara on the bench. Young brown eyes met their older counterparts.

“My death. It’s a fixed point in time. It has to happen because it’s an established historical event. And it did happen. I was dead for as long as any of us are dead - for the rest of time. But the Doctor is very clever and very… I don’t think there’s even a word for it. He found a way to bring me back.”

Anahson was about to ask why but when she looked a little more deeply at Clara, she found she didn’t need to.

“Anyway, he shouldn’t have. There are rules when you’re a time traveller. You’ll have come across some of them already. We can’t,” Clara paused, thinking of examples, “we can’t rock up at the moon landing and take a selfie with Neil Armstrong. We can’t stop the Allies from dropping atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. We can’t prevent the slave trade, avoid the Time War.”

“But he brought you back.”

“He used the Time Lords' fears against themselves. Tricked them into extracting me between one heartbeat and my last. Straight off Trap Street and onto Gallifrey, four and a half billion years later.” Clara ran a hand through her hair, remembering with absolute clarity the vulnerable look on the Doctor’s face when she had faced him in the Cloisters and realised what it all meant.

“That doesn’t explain why he can’t remember you.”

“We used a neural block. One of us had to forget the other or we wouldn’t have stopped.”

“Stopped what?” Anahson tried to catch Clara’s gaze as the Human looked down to the ground. When she finally looked up, Anahson didn’t think she had ever seen anyone look more alone.

“Being together.”

The beautiful cruelty of it all washed over Clara anew. There was a pause. Voices of the survivors drifted across to them, the noise of an extinguisher putting out a small fire at other side of the plaza, the nasal echo of the tannoy system as it declared the emergency over.

“So,” Clara continued, smoothing her palms over her thighs and down to her knees, “now I’m just a story to him. Someone he can’t quite recall, like something you’ve glimpsed out of the corner of your eye but haven’t quite paid attention to. And that’s good. That’s a good thing. It means he’s out there in the universe, being the Doctor, saving people. Showing a new person wonders. It’s the way it should be.”

“But -”

“No, Anahson.” Clara leaned in towards her, expression blazing. “This is how it is. You can’t tell him who I am. Being here, it was a mistake and I shouldn’t have come. I’m on my way back to Gallifrey as soon as I can, back to the Trap Street to put an end to this.”

Anahson shook her head frantically. That wasn’t what she had been about to say. “No, no. It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

“It’s not just you! It’s not just you he can’t remember. And, I’m sorry, but I don’t even think he can remember the stories anymore.”

“What?” Clara’s eyebrows climbed high on her forehead.

“At first he did, it was all he could think about - trying to figure it out - he was so distracted. But then, one day - _poof! -_ it was on to the next adventure. We’ve barely stopped running for months. Then there are little things: he calls me by the wrong name, all the time. He forgets planets we’ve already visited and takes me back days later thinking it’s the first time. The reason we’re even here in the first place is that he broke the TARDIS because he forgot he was in the middle of repairing it. And then he gets these headaches -” It was all coming out in a rush but Anahson couldn’t stop herself, it was such a relief to tell someone who might be able to help.

“What? Wait. Slow down… What are you trying to tell me?”

She reached for Clara’s hand and grasped it tightly.

“Clara, whatever that neural block is, whatever it’s doing - I think there’s something seriously wrong with the Doctor. And it’s getting worse.”

Clara stared at the earnest face of Anahson, the words reverberating around her head. With her other hand, she grabbed onto the cool metal of the bench, almost certain that the ground had just shifted under her feet.

One thought reverberated in her head: _Oh god. Oh god. What have I done to him?_

* * *

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Strangers When We Meet

_“All my violence, raining tears upon the sheet,_

_I’m bewildered,_

_For we’re strangers when we meet.”_

Strangers When We Meet - David Bowie

* * *

The Gallifreyan High Council had been hastily assembled and were talking in muted whispers as they awaited the final guest. It had caused much consternation when it had been suggested the Guest be allowed to attend this pivotal meeting but now everything was resting upon their arrival. The air crackled with expectation. The Lord President’s seat remained pointedly empty and the General shook her head as she tried to comprehend the mis-steps and errors that had led them to this moment. Her previous self had spoken to the Doctor in this very room, had quizzed him about the Hybrid as he’d joked about hats and what colour the prophecy was supposed to be. She should have known that he knew even less about the Hybrid than they did. She admitted she too had fallen victim to Rassilon’s all encompassing bitterness towards the Doctor and to his surety that the Hybrid would rain destruction on them all, despite the ever-growing evidence that their former leader had completely lost the plot during the Time War, if not sooner.

Glancing around the room at the untested and nervous Council members, the General took the opportunity to escape briefly, slipping out to catch her breath on the balcony. He may have cost her a regeneration (and she idly wondered if she would ever get the opportunity to pay him back for that), but she suddenly found herself wishing the Doctor was there by her side. Looking out over the glittering spires and across to the windswept sandy wastelands beyond the dome of the Citadel, she couldn’t help but think that the Doctor, if he were aware of the new prophecy, would come back and do the right thing regardless of the cost to himself. That was simply what he did, once he got the tiresome theatrics out of the way. The General rubbed the chestplate of her armour abstractedly. _Theatrics, indeed_.

The Time Lords were aware that something must have happened to separate the Doctor and Clara Oswald after their escape, to go some way towards righting the wrong he had committed in the extraction chamber. The Doctor must have seen the error of his ways. Time hadn’t quite returned to the way it should be, but neither had it torn asunder, a sure sign a compromise had been reached that satisfied the laws of the Universe, for the time being at least. He had found an alternative. He always did. _Or_ , the General thought with a wry smile, _Miss Oswald had put him on the right path_. The General had been impressed with what little she had seen of the young Human female in the extraction chamber and in the Cloisters. Fierce, passionate, clever. She could almost see why the Doctor was keen to keep her around. Why he had gone through what he had just for the chance to bring her back, however, was a mystery. The General herself had little time for sentimentality.

Twilight was falling and a dusky purple-pink haze hovered above the horizon. The sudden shade cast across the balcony made the General shiver in what she hoped wasn’t a premonition regarding the outcome of the gathering. She briefly shut her eyes, imagining the Doctor as she had seen him before their causes had diverged, wind ruffling his unruly hair, pain and loss etched into his skin. There was a pang of near regret. _Four and a half billion years in his own confession dial… for what?_ Still, it didn’t do to dwell. If the new prophecy was to be interpreted correctly - and that, as ever, was a big if: _prophecies... they never tell you anything useful, do they?_ \- then the Doctor was now lost to them forever. Which made it doubly a shame that he wasn’t there. He would have been able to find himself in a heartbeat. Fighting the urge to chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all, the General allowed herself to enjoy the vista across the Citadel for a moment longer. It was impossible to get tired of this view.

A noise from the Chambers attracted her attention and she wiped any hint of emotion from her face: time to work. The lift doors had swept open as the final member of their party arrived. Stepping back into the room unseen, the General noted all of the Council members had turned as one to stare at the guest with a palpable mixture of awe and fear. The Guest carefully removed their gloves, relishing the attention. The General stepped forward, since it didn’t look as though anyone else had the courage to say anything. _Typical_.

“Welcome home. We know you must have travelled a long way…”

The Guest held up an immaculate bejewelled finger. “Oh, shush.” Piercing eyes saw straight through the armour and rigid stance. “General, is that you? You sly old goat. Oh, I much prefer this regeneration. Still not a fan of hair though, I see.” Two black, satin, elbow-length gloves were flung with a flourish into the middle of the table. The High Councillors stepped out of the way as the guest barged through, sashaying provocatively over to the Lord President’s Chair. Precisely manicured fingers stroked the back of it, waiting for anyone to dare to object. No one did. With the finesse of careful choreography, the Guest sat in the chair and settled her delicately heeled boots on the table, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“Now, now, everybody sit,” she ordered, a hint of malice in her tone. She clapped her hands together and the sharp slaps bounced across the Chamber. “Sit, like the good lapdogs you are.” The General was bemused but also felt a prickle of alarm as the High Council did as they were told. There was every chance that their list of mistakes had just become a little longer.

“Good,” the Mistress drawled, a smirk creeping across her face. “Now, which one of you is going to be brave enough to tell me what is so awful and terrifying that you’d beg _little old me_ for help?”

* * *

The Doctor waited, although he didn’t particularly expect Ashildr to be forthcoming with an answer to his question. Somewhere in the corner of the cafe, water continued to drip onto something metallic and hollow, beating out a staccato representation of time as it passed. Surprisingly, Ashildr didn’t bluster or try to talk her way out of the conversation. She just stared him down, seeming years older than he knew her to be. He frowned.

“It’s not like you to be so humble, Ashildr.” He purposefully used her original name, hoping to get a rise out of her but, no, nothing. If anything, she briefly looked as though she pitied him, a kind of patronising patience radiated from her, like might be witnessed when a parent tolerates a toddler’s tantrum. “I’d have thought you’d be dying to let me know how you managed to get your hands on some Time Lord technology.”

“Well,” Ashildr murmured, a smile playing on the corner of her lips. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? Now, I’m fairly certain these Judoon would welcome a trip back to their barracks. They’ve had a long day and I think everyone on the asteroid would feel better if they weren’t patrolling for the next little while.” The Judoon guard closest to them practically howled his agreement.

“The only reason I can think that you don’t want to share your secret doesn’t really make any sense to me,” the Doctor continued casually, as though he hadn’t heard her. “Because I’m fairly certain you don’t have access to a time machine. Usually people hide things from me if they’re in my future. Is that it? Is Oswald in my future?”

“The Judoon, Doctor. You’ve got your priorities backwards.”

Ashildr tried to step back as the Doctor suddenly darted towards her, but she was too slow. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging in painfully.

“Don’t you _dare_ presume to talk to me about priorities. Don’t you dare. Tell me the truth. Who is she? What is she?” His face was thunderous, filled with rage. He felt a satisfied jolt of electricity as he noticed Ashildr’s pulse pick up and her thinly veiled gulp of fear. “Is she a trick? A trap? Why do I feel so -” He broke off, his voice suddenly hoarse. He tore himself away from the girl and whirled so his back was towards her. Looking lost, he massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers before dragging his hands over his face. They pulled at the rapidly healing cuts and he welcomed the brief flinch of pain.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Eventually, he turned to face her, contrite. “I’m sorry, Me. I shouldn’t have - you’re right, of course, we need to get the Judoon back where they belong. And then I’m getting the impression it might be best if we part company. Am I right?”

Ashildr nodded slowly, trying to mask her slow exhalation as some of the tension seeped out of her body. She suddenly recalled how the Doctor’s threat had shaken her on Trap Street, all those years ago. It was almost a relief to know that she could still be surprised but, she resolved, this little outburst was not something that Clara Oswald ever needed to find out about.

The Doctor paused to collect himself. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded weary. When had he last rested? He couldn’t remember. “We can use the transporters to send them all directly to the barracks. I don’t think anybody would appreciate them walking the halls today.” He turned to the Judoon who were still stood at a slightly flagging attention. He felt a flare of empathy for them - this whole mess was hardly their fault. That blame lay directly with whoever had programmed their comrade and turned him into a killer.

“Attention!” He barked, hating the tone he had to adopt but knowing it was the only thing they would understand. “Single file, report to the transporters and then back to barracks. Fall out!” The metallic stomp signified his order had been received and understood. The Doctor stepped out of the way as the Judoom marched past him and over to the transporter pads. He and Ashildr watched as they individually lined up, punched in their access codes and, one by one, began to transport away.

“You did well today, Doctor.” Ashildr offered, a verbal olive branch of sorts.

His mind automatically flickered to the young boy he’d seen cradling his injured arm, the sheet-covered body he’d spotted in the South Quadrant earlier, Delores the Plebusian’s righteous anger…

“Not well enough,” he said, darkly. “And I’m not done yet. Come with me.”

He walked to the transporter so briskly Ashildr had to jog to catch up. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to have a quick heart to heart with patient zero,” he said as he keyed in the co-ordinates on the transporter. With a flash of light, they were both whisked away from the cafe, leaving behind them a glistening, damp mess of overturned tables and a floor scattered with broken glass.

* * *

Clara left Anahson speaking with the young Silurian employee of the Shadow Proclamation and started walking back to the transporter mats, her mind still reeling. Could it be true, what the Doctor’s new companion had said? Was it possible that the neural block had caused more damage than they had originally thought? But why would he have even risked the neural block if he’d known what it could do? _Unless,_ a hostile voice sneered from somewhere deep within Clara’s mind, _it’s only making him ill because some idiot reversed the polarity_.

She punched in the co-ordinates to the courtroom that Ashildr had given her when she had checked in. Closing her eyes as the transporter lights flashed, Clara instantaneously rematerialised in a lavish, wood panel-lined room. The seal of the Shadow Proclamation presided as a wall hanging above an impressive, throne-like chair. Aside from the shimmering force-fields around the defendant and witness booths, it looked exactly like a High Court she had seen on television dramas back on Earth. Strange how some decor was timeless. Whispering an entirely unnecessary _‘thanks’_ to the transporter - she was always relieved when her constituent parts were rematerialised in their proper places - Clara spotted the Doctor and Ashildr and walked down a small flight of stairs to join them. There was a very tired looking Judoon with them, wearing a luminous prison uniform over his armour. The Judoon sat wearily on a stool, discarded magnetic shackles laying on the floor at his feet. The Doctor was examining what could be loosely described as a laptop, the sonic screwdriver sticking out of an organic-looking port, projecting star charts onto the monitor.

Ashildr sensed Clara’s approach and rose from a crouch to greet her. “Hey, how’s everything out there?”

“Under control,” Clara said, furrowing her brow as she watched the Doctor. He was sat cross-legged on the floor, uncomfortably folded in on himself as he scrolled through the data the sonic was spewing out. “What’s that?”

Ashildr made a face. “He’s trying to track the original command, find out who the victim was…”

“And discover who wanted them dead.” The Doctor muttered, barely looking up. “Yolo here isn’t being very forthcoming.”

Clara let out a little huff of laughter. “Yolo? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She felt a flash of warmth tinged with sadness as she remembered her students at Coal Hill. Breaking into a smile, she looked up only to find the Time Lord, Viking and Judoon staring at her with confused expressions. “Yolo. You know, like ‘you only live once’?”

“What are you talking about?” Ashildr asked, folding her arms across her chest.

The Doctor scrunched up his face. “That’s not even accurate…”

“Okay, forget it!” Clara waved her hands at them in amused frustration. “Wrong crowd.”

The sonic screwdriver let out a high-pitched squeal and the Doctor turned back to his readings. Clara raised her eyebrows at Ashildr and indicated to the corner with a slight inclination of her head. They moved a good distance away from the Doctor and huddled closely together as Ashildr caught Clara’s eye in askance.

“Okay, you’re not going to like this,” Clara began, wringing her hands together. “We need to stay with them for a bit longer.”

“ _What_?”

Clara winced. “I was just talking to Anahson. She thinks there’s something wrong with the Doctor. She says he’s forgetting things…” she held up a hand to stop her companion from interrupting, “...not just me. Things that he shouldn’t be forgetting. And she says it’s getting worse.”

Ashildr frowned, unconvinced. “He seems...fine. Clara, if this is some excuse -”

“You know me better than that. Or at least I hope you do.” They stared at each other for a moment, gazes warring. “And is he? Is he fine?” Clara glanced over her shoulder towards where the Doctor was splayed, briefly resting his head in his hands as though in pain. “Look at him.” In the well-lit courtroom, Clara could study him clearly for the first time without interference. She felt something constrict in her throat. He looked thinner, if that was even possible. The skin pulled tightly across the back of his hand was almost translucent, his shoulders were hunched defensively. Even Ashildr had to admit that he was carrying himself a little less confidently than usual, despite his rantings and braggadocio to the contrary.

“He used the wrong setting,” Ashildr said, as she watched Clara watch the Doctor.

“What?”

“When he tried to trace the subroutine originally. He told me he used the wrong setting on the sonic. That’s why the failsafe was triggered.” Ashildr exhaled a long breath. A muscle under her eye twitched as she remembered the Doctor’s violent desperation earlier, all vanished now as though it had never happened. He’d always been unpredictable but it wasn’t like the Doctor to drop a mystery so quickly. She’d been so grateful for the cessation of his questions that she’d barely realised he hadn’t brought up Clara’s timelock since. Perhaps there was something to this...

Clara shook her head, feeling a hot panic start to rise from somewhere near the pit of her stomach. “See? We have to stay.” Ashildr’s expression darkened again and Clara relented a little. “Or not stay. But we have to do something! What if he forgets how to fly the TARDIS again? What if he crosses his own timestream? He’s _The Doctor_. I can’t think of anything more dangerous.”

“I can.” Ashildr said, in a low voice.

Clara couldn’t stop her eyes from flickering back over the Doctor’s back, reassuring herself that he was there and solid - not hurting for now, at least. “What?”

Ashildr looked at her, direct and to the point. “The Hybrid.”

Dumbfounded, Clara opened her mouth to respond but the Doctor chose that moment to shout out triumphantly. “Got it!” He scrambled to his feet, looking around the room as though he hadn’t noticed the two women leave his side. “What are you doing over there? Is there a refreshment table? Did I miss out on cake?”

Ashildr stepped forward, clearing her throat. “No, no cake Doctor. You found the origin of the signal?”

The Doctor eagerly scampered over. “Of course I did! Just need to fire up the TARDIS and put in the co-ordinates the sonic has managed to hone in on, do a bit of investigating…” he all but screeched to a halt in front of them. “Where’s Anahson?”

* * *

Anahson balanced the small data drive in the palm of her hand and curled her fingers around it protectively. Contained within its petabytes of disk space was a relatively small file, filled with several documents that her mother had registered with the High Commissioner all those years ago. Reesha closed down the terminal they had accessed, confident she had erased all traces of their activity. The long, vaulted corridor they were in reminded Anahson of the TARDIS; it seemed to stretch further than the room should physically allow.

“Thanks so much,” Anahson stuttered as she turned her swivel stool to face Reesha, whose face was half-illuminated by the blue-white glow from the vidscreen. “I can’t tell you how much this -” her words were cut off as Reesha leaned in and kissed her, full on the lips. Anahson barely had time to swallow her surprise and begin to respond before the Silurian pulled away abruptly.

“What was that?” Reesha touched a scaled hand to her lips, puzzled. She’d seen a flash behind her eyes that was half visual hallucination, half sensation. Of a dozen other kisses - some featuring Anahson, some with some of her own past lovers in a starring role, right there in light-speed technicolour. Her eyes widened.

“Sorry,” Anahson said, avoiding the other woman’s questioning stare. “I wasn’t prepared for -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Reesha said, hurriedly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Anahson’s face fell. “Oh. Okay. I understand.”

“No, I didn’t mean -” Reesha leant forward, a hand reaching towards Anahson’s knee.

“Anahson!” She almost jumped six feet in the air at the sound of the Doctor’s voice booming her name. She spun around but there was no one behind her. Flushing as she realised her error, she tapped on her earpiece.

“Doctor?”

“I need you back at the TARDIS, we’ve got a lead and I need you to be Good Cop when we follow it up. And what did I tell you about wandering off on strange planets? Remember that time on Rigel Seven? I had to buy a new pair of boots.”

She gave Reesha an apologetic shrug and stood up, secretly pleased for the interruption. However their conversation had been about to continue, she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for it. “Technically, this is an asteroid, not a planet.”

“What do you mean, ‘technically’? It _is_ an asteroid, there’s nothing ‘technical’ about it, but the principle still applies. Or do I need to specify the same rule with clauses for every potential celestial body we might visit?”

“So, you need me at the TARDIS?” She held out a hand to halt Reesha who looked as though she wanted to say something.

“Because I could do that, you know,” the Doctor continued, ignoring her question. “I could actually list every single type: planetoid, planet, dwarf planet, moon… I could do it in alphabetical order! Better still, I could colour coordinate it for you. Print them out onto index cards and _laminate_ them.”

“Doctor, I will meet you at the TARDIS in five minutes.” With that, she pulled the earpiece out of her ear and shoved it in her pocket. Turning to Reesha, her other hand still firmly grasping the data drive, she smiled kindly.

“It was nice to meet you, Reesha. And thank you. Really.” She bit her lip as she felt her embarrassment from earlier dissipate. There was something about knowing she was about to jump into a time machine and fly off to hunt down a murderer that made all her insecurities seem less overwhelming. “You really are a rockstar archivist.” With that - and Anahson was pretty pleased her sign off was a good mix of pleasant and sexily enigmatic - she turned to leave.

“Erm, Anahson?” Reesha called after her, rising from her seat to follow. Anahson gave a quick smile to herself before turning around. _Can’t bear to see me leave?_ She thought, with a flare of satisfaction. “You can’t get out of the archive without my biometric pass.” Reesha held up the pass as evidence. Anahson felt her embarrassment quickly, inevitably return.

“Oh, right. Yes. After you.” She stood aside to let Reesha lead the way.

* * *

The Doctor, Anahson, Clara and Ashildr stood outside the conspicuous blue police box and said their goodbyes. The Aechon had already left for their homeworld on the first transport vessel to depart the asteroid after the lockdown had been lifted. Ashildr had arranged for herself and Clara to return to Aechon to check in on the delegation once they had picked up their own TARDIS from the Shadow Proclamation Parking Facility in the asteroid’s hollowed out core. As Clara had already pointed out, they had a little bit of wiggle room in terms of _when_ exactly they had to meet with the Aechon again, as long as they didn’t forget in the interim.

Deep in the pocket of Anahson’s jeans was a scribbled note in Clara’s script with the Diner TARDIS’ contact number and a set of emergency spacetime coordinates in case of any significant change in the Doctor’s condition. Clara had insisted upon providing them as part of the compromise she and Ashildr had hastily cobbled together whilst the Doctor’s attention had been distracted during his reunion with his beloved ship.  As they prepared to part company, Clara hugged Anahson close to her and whispered in her ear.

“If anything happens just call me, okay? I don’t care how small or insignificant you think it is. Just call. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

The Doctor emerged from inside the TARDIS, tutting impatiently as Ashildr also gave Anahson a hug goodbye. “Come on, come on! The trail’s getting cold.” He stood amongst them regardless, hovering.

“No it isn’t, Doctor,” Ashildr fondly scolded. “You’ve got a time machine.”

“I meant to ask, Me. Do you need a lift anywhere? Not in time, mind, in space. Can’t be leaving you stranded here by yourself.”

Ashildr looked at Clara with bemusement. “I’m not by myself. I’m with Oswald.”

“Who?”

Clara stepped into the Doctor’s line of vision. Was he just being his usual rude self or was this the memory loss rearing its head again? “Me. I’m Oswald, Doctor.” She looked into his eyes and saw absolutely zero recognition, just a mildly panicked expression which he quickly hid with a flourish of his hand as he stepped away to slap the side of the TARDIS like he was a used car salesman.

“Of course you are! Oswald. Oswald, Oswald, Oswald. So, do you need a lift? I don’t ask everyone, you know.”

Clara felt Ashildr’s hand as it grasped her elbow, holding her back from the step forward she hadn’t even realised she’d taken. “We’ve got our own transportation, thanks.” Ashildr spoke for them, which was for the best as Clara didn’t trust her voice at that exact moment.

“Suit yourselves. Me, it’s been a... pleasure as always. Oswald.” He nodded to her and Clara felt something inside her tear, painfully. She had to turn away. The Doctor didn’t even pause as he waltzed into the TARDIS. “Come on Anahson,” he called from inside. The Janus raised her arms in a bewildered shrug.

“What do I do?” she asked Ashildr, a tinge of despair in her voice.

“You’ve got our number. Just try and keep him under control while we try and find out more. Hopefully, the further away he gets from Clara -” Ashildr risked a glance over to her companion who had moved to the other side of the meeting room table to compose herself, “...the better he will be. We’ll be in touch.”

A Scottish growl of impatience floated out of the TARDIS. Anahson gathered her wits and, with one last look over towards Clara, stepped into the time machine and quietly closed the door. The familiar sounds of the wheezing engines filled the room, a draft of air lifting Ashildr’s messily dried hair.

Clara turned around just in time to see the TARDIS vanish.

“We shouldn’t have let them go.”

“What was the alternative?” Ashildr argued, gesturing to the place where the TARDIS had just been stood. “Stand around making notes every single time he has a memory lapse? The Doctor’s recall isn’t the best in the first place,” she tried to joke.

“He always remembered,” Clara said, “he pretended not to, a lot of the time, but he always remembered and he always cared. That’s what makes him the Doctor.”

Ashildr didn’t always see the Doctor the same way as her companion. To her, he often seemed childish and fool-hardy. After all, he was the one who had run destructively away to the last five minutes of the universe because he hadn’t been able to cope with the loss of his friend. But Ashildr sensed this was not the best time to start that particular fight; Clara knew the Doctor the best and Ashildr would continue to trust her implicitly.

“So,” Ashildr finally said. “We need to make ourselves useful. Right? That’s what you are always telling me. Get information. We don’t know anything: we don’t know how the neural block is supposed to work, how Time Lords have used them before, whether this is temporary…”

She ushered Clara from the room and they made their way down the long corridor over to the transporter that would take them back to their own TARDIS. The nebula they had been so taken by when they arrived was barely glanced at now. They couldn’t have been at the Shadow Proclamation for more than a handful of hours, but it felt like days, and long ones at that. Ashildr was gagging for a cup of tea.

“You’re right,” Clara admitted, sounding distracted. “We need a plan.”

“Love a good plan.” Ashildr reached the transporter and pulled up short as she realised that Clara had stopped a few feet away, lost in thought. “Clara?”

“We do love a good plan,” Clara echoed, a smile dimpling her cheek as her eyes blazed with the formation of an idea, “but how would you feel about trying out a spectacularly bad one?”

* * *

She ran.

She ran as fast as her feet and the shuddering ground would allow her. She ran reluctantly. She ran as she had been ordered.

Crumbling walls filled the air with dust and she briefly coughed as some of it hit the back of her throat. The screeching and screaming showed no signs of abating, and the smell as the sewers oozed up through the fresh cracks in the ground would have made a lesser being gag.

Well, this was tiresome. It had been interesting for a while there but now everything was boring, boring, boring. Apart from her own potentially looming demise, of course, which always came as somewhat of a surprise unless she had specifically planned for it. She never liked to get too attached but, as she tried to turn down another corridor only to be thwarted when the floor fell away into a bubbling brown abyss, it struck her she’d become accustomed to her current form; the ignorant underestimated her whilst her more worthy enemies appreciated its elegant brutality. _Plus_ , she thought idly as she backed away from a caterwauling Dalek, half burned through its golden outer casing, the fluid from its eyestalk dribbling to the floor, _the outfits are better._

Another corner rounded and she found that her sense of direction was completely off-kilter. This looked like the very corridor she’d left them in. Evidently, they’d rudely escaped and...yes, there it was!...the opened Dalek casing had been tipped over by the seismic shifts happening beneath the planet’s surface but there was no mistaking the empty husk. She closed her eyes and exhaled for a moment, slowing down time somewhere in the centre of her consciousness to try and think her way out of this predicament.

 _Diddily squat_.

With a huff of resignation, she opened her eyes and ruefully twisted the useless bracelet around her wrist. It was a shame none of the Daleks were quite up to shooting her at the moment to give the battery an extra boost. _Dying on Skaro_ , _how embarrassing._ There was only one thing for it; she was going to have to find some cowering Daleks and make them an offer they couldn’t refuse…

...But maybe first there was time for a burger?

She blinked rapidly, ignoring the temptation to rub her eyes in astonishment. _An American Diner on Skaro_ . She sniffed, picking up the scent of a malfunctioning chameleon circuit instantly. It smelled like burned toast. _Had he…?_ She took a couple of tentative steps towards the incongruous eatery, wedged tightly across the corridor ahead of her. She hadn’t even heard it arrive. Either he’d become a much better pilot, or -

The door to the diner flung open with the jingle of a cheerful bell. Clara Oswald emerged - different clothes than ten minutes ago - taking in the surroundings with what looked like a satisfied smile. In her hand, she carried a stainless steel tumbler of something cold and delicious, piled high with fresh whipped cream and a cherry stuck on the top. In her other hand, Clara held a bright yellow straw that she shoved into the drink with a flourish before thrusting it in her direction.

“Milkshake, Missy?”

The Mistress knew she hadn’t managed to hide her surprise and inwardly cursed the fact that this occasionally not-so-stupid human would have noticed. Recovering quickly, she reached out and took the proffered drink, taking a loud, lip-smacking slurp. The floor shook again but Missy pretended to not notice. The milkshake was _good._

“We’ll give you a lift but there are conditions,” Clara stated calmly, holding the door open. Missy stepped forward only to be temporarily blocked by the cocky human. “Wait. You’re going to want to hear what they are. One: you are absolutely not to kill or try to kill or plot to kill anyone while you travel with us.” Missy rolled her eyes, picked the cherry out of the mess of whipped cream and popped it into her mouth. “That’s non-negotiable. Two: you owe me. I give you free passage from Skaro and you help me, genuinely help me with something. No tricks, no games.”

The other end of the hallway collapsed into the sewer with a groan. Missy glanced over her shoulder then scowled at Clara, not wanting to admit that this looked like the lesser of two evils - not her usual _modus operandi_ but making a deal with these Davros-whipped Daleks was hardly favourable either - plus, even she had to admit her curiosity was piqued. How had the puppy got her hands on her own TARDIS?

She was being quite sassy about it too, which was annoying. Missy was confident she would be able to turn the tables soon enough.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Missy said, doffing an imaginary cap.

“Don’t call me that.” The Human held open the door and Missy swept inside, taking in the interior of the diner. It was all a bit much. Garish. No class. She waltzed through to the back, hearing the engines in the console room start up as Clara shut and locked the front door. She pushed her way through the horrible Elvis door and almost forgot herself for a moment. _Now this is classy_. She paused while she took in the sparse, white interior. Clearly, it wasn’t long since this TARDIS had left the workshop. Some alterations had been made, bookcases grown into the walls, comfortable looking seating all the way around the console, mood lighting in the roundels… but there was no hiding the ‘fresh from Gallifrey’ smell.

“Nice, isn’t it?” And this was the biggest surprise of all. Lady Me, stood behind the console looking for all the worlds like she belonged there.  Missy smiled inwardly. Oh, she was going to have some fun with this. _Time traveller perk._ Carefully schooling her features to show no outward recognition, she turned to Clara who was monitoring her reaction closely.

“Who is this? Got a new little playmate did you? I must admit, I’m impressed. It’s usually the Doctor who dumps you lot when you get too boring for him. Was it finally the other way around? He is a pathetic old fart these days. Fancy running off with a _real_ Time Lady, did you?”

“Yes, yes,” Clara said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let’s get it all out of your system.”

“She’s pretending not to know me too,” Lady Me stated, earning a slow hand clap from Missy as she turned around to address the immortal girl.

“Oh, now you’re just spoiling all my fun! We could have played a little game with her, Me, or whatever you’re calling yourself nowadays. It would have been just like old times.” Missy felt the sudden need to get back on some even footing here, she didn’t like feeling off kilter.

“You two have met?” Clara sounded surprised and Missy felt a brief shudder of triumph.

“I’m immortal,”Ashildr replied, her hands out to placate her friend. “Running into Time Lords is an occupational hazard.”

Missy strolled around the console, brushing past Ashildr purposefully as she ran her hands over the central column. She circled, predatorily. It had been a long time since she had her own honest to goodness, or whatever her version of that saying was, TARDIS. Too many years spent using cheap time travel, it just wasn’t _dignified_. Like using Ryan Air instead of Emirates to put it in terms that these simpering fleshbags would understand. One of the lights on the console flickered, invitingly. Missy watched it, uncertain of what she had just seen, an eyebrow arching as the pattern repeated itself. Of course, the other two in the room wouldn’t have the foggiest what that light meant... Missy absolutely wanted to keep it that way.

“Don’t touch any of the controls, Missy,” Clara warned, stepping forwards. “We’re not going anywhere until you help us.”

Missy looked Clara up and down quickly before fixing her with a piercing stare. “You’re dead. No heartbeat. You’re not breathing. Timelocked! Ooh. Well, that’s not fair! That’s very upsetting.” She pouted, dramatically.

Clara looked bemused. “Er, thanks, I suppose?”

“Upsetting that I wasn’t the one who got to kill you.”

“Ugh, why did I think this would be a good idea?” Clara said to herself more than anyone else, rolling her eyes.

“Of course, if you’re time-locked, it means one thing,” Missy continued, moving away from Clara and brushing some imaginary lint from the seat that circled the console. She primly sat, crossing her legs at the knee. “You’ve been to Gallifrey. To an extraction chamber, to be precise. And, given the one glaring omission from this cosy little reunion, I would hazard to guess that our lover boy has gone and done something very dastardly indeed. Now _that_ is interesting. And for that reason, and that reason alone, you can have my undivided attention for, oh,” she pulled out an intricate fob watch, “exactly three minutes.”

She snapped the fob watch closed and clasped her hands together, looking every bit the epitome of patience and poise. Clara and Ashildr shared a look and she frowned at their silent communication. Missy pointedly cleared her throat:

“Starting...now.”

* * *

Anahson stumbled slightly as she ran after the Doctor, down a grassy hill, trying to catch up with his lanky frame as he raced ahead. They had found the author of the Judoon attack easily enough, but he was naturally a little reluctant to be brought to justice. A snivelling hacker with no more motive than petty revenge against the businessman who had stolen his girlfriend, he was astonishingly spritely to say he looked as though he hadn’t left the comfort of his apartment for years.

The Doctor was apoplectic. She didn’t think she had seen him this angry before. Not since Trap Street, at any rate. He was determined that the hacker pay for his mistake, hence their impromptu chase sequence. She gasped in a lungful of air and tried to enjoy the sensation of being the _chaser_ rather than the _chasee_ for once. The Doctor’s anger, however, seemed to Anahson a disproportionate response to the crime: from what they had learned, Govian had written the code to hack the Judoon in a drunken stupor and hadn’t even realised that he had been successful until she and the Doctor had followed the encrypted signal right to his front door. Any cover up by treating the Judoon as the perpetrator seemed to have come directly from the Shadow Proclamation itself, which Anahson found far more unsettling. Perhaps they were trying to hide the fact that their armed enforcers had been so easily infiltrated?

The Doctor had gained on Govian, leaping over the babbling stream that ran through the centre of the towering city’s award-winning Earth Replica park. If it weren’t for all the chasing, Anahson would have been enjoying the juxtaposition of a beautiful 20th Century park slap bang in the middle of the shimmering high rises of this planet’s bustling mega-metropolis. Jumping the stream herself, she skidded in the muddy puddle at the other side, flinging an arm out to stop herself from falling.

Govian was flagging, his bulking mass shaking with the effort of his exertions. He tripped over his own feet, crashing face first into a bed of vibrant red flowers. Anahson cringed as she saw the Doctor skid to a halt, kicking up turf under his boots. They were going to have some very unhappy gardeners to contend with if they stayed around long enough. She pulled up short behind him, panting. The Doctor was already ranting to the terrified man as he scrabbled in the compost to try to get away.

“...You’ll face the full extent of the law at the Shadow Proclamation,” she heard him threaten, his tone deadly serious. “The death penalty. And I’ll be there to watch and make sure they do it properly.”

_What the hell?!_

“Doctor!” Anahson interrupted, sharply. “What on earth?”

He barely glanced in her direction, focusing all his fury on the hacker at his feet. “People like you make me sick. Oh, my girlfriend left me, I must kill someone. What right do you have to say who lives and dies? You think you’re the only one who ever lost someone? Get up off your arse -”

The Doctor suddenly clutched his head and let out a yelp of pain, stumbling. Anahson rushed to his side and tried to catch his arm as he pitched forward. Something heavy impacted on the side of her face and before she knew what was happening, she was on the ground, reeling. Her vision flared bright white.

The Doctor had _hit_ her. He towered over her, looking horrified. His hand still raised, frozen into a fist. Govian whimpered, filling the stunned silence.

“Anahson -” He crouched down next to her and, instinctively - she couldn’t have done a thing to stop herself - she flinched away from him. His eyes widened. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what just happened. I…” He hovered near her as she unsteadily sat up, feeling hot tears streaking down her cheeks, more from the shock of it all than the pain, although her jaw stung.

“Take me back to the TARDIS,” she said, amazed her voice came out level. “Now.”

The Doctor nodded, flushed. He looked over to Govian, seeming unsure about what to do.

“Leave him,” Anahson pleaded. “We can get the Shadow Proclamation to pick him up. But we have to sort this out, right now. You know you’re not right. We have to get you some help.”

The Doctor looked as though he wanted to argue but thought better of it. Anahson accepted his hand to help her to her feet, feeling something in her leg twinge as she wiped the damp and grass from her jeans. She put some distance between them as she collected herself and could tell from the Doctor’s face that this hurt him. _Well, tough_. She had tried time and time again to bring up his memory loss and his mood swings with him back when they were less frequent but he had always changed the subject and distracted them with another adventure: no more. If the bruise she could feel beginning to blossom on her cheek could give him pause to stop, maybe, just maybe, he would finally let her in.

Govian was rolling in the dirt, trying to get to his feet. The Doctor moved as though to prevent him but Anahson cleared her throat before he could. “Go back to your apartment, Govian. There will be some representatives from the Shadow Proclamation there to visit you soon.”

“But... I didn’t mean to!” The man was crying and, despite her still-racing pulse and her aching face, Anahson felt a flash of empathy for him. She could tell he was genuinely shocked without even having to use her abilities.

“I know,” she said. “But people died, Govian. Accident or not, you’re responsible and you’re going to have to face up to that.” The hacker sniffed loudly as the Doctor bristled beside her, barely restraining himself. “Go home,” she ordered. “Now. If you’re not there when the officers call, you know they’ll send the Judoon after you and, trust me, that’s the last thing you want after what you’ve done to them.”

Govian backed away from them and back up the hill, practically bowing to Anahson as he did so, all the while studiously avoiding the Doctor’s glare. Anahson waited until the culprit was a reasonable distance away and turned to the quiet Time Lord, trying to muster up courage and maturity she hadn’t thought she would need to possess at such a young age.

“How bad is your headache on a scale of one to ten?” She asked, remembering vaguely that this was something they did on _Holby City_. Seemed as good a place as any to start.

“One to ten what?” The Doctor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t do that, Doctor,” Anahson replied, looking him straight in the eye. “Not anymore. This has gone on long enough, don’t you think?”

“Ten.” He offered. “Ten, to the power of ten.”

Anahson nodded, indicating that they should walk back along the central path of the park themselves, back to where they had parked the TARDIS, close to an elaborate water feature. She wondered how bad the pain had to be in human terms for a Time Lord to rate it so highly. Her next question was preempted by a hesitant pause: “Can you remember? Why we were chasing Govian?”

The Doctor looked down at her, confused, as he walked carefully in line with her. “Of course. He killed the man who stole his girlfriend.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How did he do that?”

“...Oh.” The Doctor stopped walking.

“You don’t know, do you?” Anahson tentatively held out a hand to touch him on the arm and bring his attention back to her. He looked so bewildered.

“Anahson… I think I should take you home.” The Doctor was deadly serious, his voice low and accent thick. “I don’t think I’m safe for you to be with, right now.”

She tugged on his sleeve and pulled him along the path, relieved as she saw the fountains come into sight. “Nonsense,” she said, doing her best to put on a bright expression. “It just so happens, you’ve got some very good friends who are doing everything they can to help you. We just need to give them time.” Anahson swallowed down her worry as the Doctor followed mutely behind, so unlike his usual self. Mentally, she crossed her fingers and hoped that Clara and Ashildr would be in touch soon; she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay positive.

* * *

Clara found that she had to sit down once she’d finished telling Missy the story of her own, sordid, recent history. She’d left out key points, of course. Missy didn’t need to know how long the Doctor had been trapped in his confession dial for the sole purpose of rescuing Clara and the Time Lady _certainly_ didn’t need to know anything about what Clara had told the Doctor in the Cloisters. That was between them and, one day, she ardently hoped, he would remember it all. A perfunctory glance to Ashildr told her that she’d covered the basics well enough and, she was pleased to note, had managed it within the time limit. Now all that was left was to see whether Missy would stay true to her word or, and Clara admitted this was the stronger possibility, laugh with glee and do a tap dance around the console room.

“Can we go somewhere nice?” Missy asked, startling them both.

Clara groaned, inwardly. Option B it was. “What?”

“Pardon,” Missy corrected. “Manners cost nothing, Miss Oswald.”

“Manners like the time you trapped me inside a Dalek, you mean? Or pushed me off a twenty foot drop?” Clara snapped. She was sick and tired of this feeling of being useless. Something was wrong with the Doctor. Something that was very probably her fault and, though she had largely come to terms with the fact that they couldn’t be together, she certainly would not tolerate him being in danger or pain out there in the universe without her doing every damn thing in her power to help him, whether he ever knew it or not.

“Ooh, the puppy’s got teeth!” The Mistress crowed, delighted. “And here I thought you were wanting my help.”

“Not if you’re going to turn it against him,” Clara responded, her voice raising in volume. “I’ll kill you first.”

“Clara,” Ashildr’s warning tone bounced across the walls of the console room but Clara couldn’t heed it.

“Look, Missy -”

“Can we go somewhere nice?” Missy repeated, interrupting. Clara threw up her hands and turned her back on the other woman, trying to quash her anger before she did something she might not live to regret. “Can we go somewhere nice,” Missy said again, before adding: “to watch the chaos unfold?”

Clara slowly turned to stare at Missy, brown eyes clashing with icy blue. Ashildr stepped towards where Missy was sat. “Chaos?”

“Oh yes, my little Viking friend. Chaos.” Missy grinned, loving the attention. “What do you think happens when a Time Lord loses all sense of himself? Especially a do-gooding Time Lord who’s spent thousands of years hopping around saving planets and being all.. _ethical_.” She spat the last word like it tasted bitter.

“I don’t understand,” Clara said. “The neural block was supposed to make him forget _me_ , why would any of this happen?”

“Of course you don’t understand,” Missy scoffed. “What do you _really_ know about your lover boy? You treat him like he’s human. Like he’s wired the same way as you. Like he’s some hobby you can pick up and put down whenever you feel like it.” Clara flinched but tried to not let it show. Missy continued, “Time Lord memory isn’t the same as human memory. It’s interwoven into our timestreams, into our actions in the past, present and future…”

“Hang on,” Clara interrupted. “It’s interwoven with his timestream?”

Missy folded her arms across her chest and turned to Ashildr with an affronted look at being cut off. Clara barely noticed as she stood and slowly began to pace up and down, speeding up as her mind tried to grasp at a fleeting notion, as though it was dangled in front of her from a just out of reach piece of string.

“Clara?” Ashildr wasn’t following but could tell that Missy had finished making her point by the way she sat back and watched Clara; sizing up her skin, potentially, to make a lamp out of later.

“I’m in the Doctor’s timestream. All over it. I jumped into it to save him.” Clara’s eyes were wide as they met Ashildr’s. “So if the neural block is removing me from his memory…”

“It’s removing you from every regeneration,” Ashildr finished, still looking puzzled. “But why would that be chaotic?”

“Actually, yeah,” Clara said, scrunching closed one eye and turning back to Missy. “Just because he can’t remember my echoes saving him doesn’t mean that they didn’t do it, right? He never really knew about all of them before anyway.”

Missy sighed and took great pleasure in dramatically rolling her eyes back into her head. “Of course not! What on earth was he doing hanging about with you this whole time? He clearly wasn’t with you for your brains,” Missy finally stood and stretched, languorously. She yawned. “I’m bored now. It was a nice try, but you’ve both succeeded in boring me almost to death. I’m surprised I haven’t started to regenerate.”

“Missy…” Clara warned, taking a step forward.

“What happens when a neural block has to block memories from the entirety of a two thousand year timestream?” Missy snarled, getting close enough that Clara could feel flecks of contempt land on her face. “Memories aren’t static and neither’s a neural block. It’s a living, breathing process. So: smorgasbord of memories. It gets greedy, that’s what happens. It adapts! It shifts and changes until it can’t distinguish one memory from the other and then, _poof_ !” She held up her hands in an imitation of a magician making something disappear, a gesture which briefly reminded Clara of the Doctor himself. “Gone is the Doctor you thought you knew. Hello to the Time Lord who only knows that he has the whole of time and space at his disposal and no finicky conscience or memory of his precious _companions_ to hold him back.”

Missy pulled a lever on the console before Clara or Ashildr could even begin to stop her. The TARDIS began to whirr and moan as it left the relative safety of the time vortex and headed to whatever destination the Mistress had in mind.

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it!” Clara cried, desperately trying to reverse the coordinates that had been set, but it was too late.

“Help me, Missy! Stop it, Missy! Make up your mind, this is _exhausting_.” Missy fanned herself as though she was about to swoon. “Do you want my help or not?” The TARDIS had landed, but the screens were blank and held no clues as to their destination.

“You’ll help? This is you helping?” Clara tried to decipher exactly what the hell Missy was playing at. She had known it would be a risk to get the Time Lady on board the TARDIS. Now, however, she was starting to think she had underestimated massively.

“Yes, I’ll help,” the Mistress said in a sing-song voice. “There’s only room for one naughty Time Lord in the universe, after all.” She winked at Ashildr and, covering her mouth from Clara’s view with her hand loudly whispered, “That’s me.” She made towards the door to the diner but Clara blocked her exit.

“Why would you help?” she asked, “You. This is exactly what you want. You, and the Doctor at your side, causing havoc. This is why you put the two of us together in the first place, to turn us into the Hybrid. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” Missy scoffed. “ _You_ wouldn’t be enough to turn him into the Hybrid, you silly little thing. Don’t believe every single prophecy you get told about third hand.”

“Everything you’ve told us is a lie, isn’t it?” Ashildr accused, standing closely next to Clara. “Clara, we can’t trust a word she says, she’s just playing us like she always does.” It occurred to Clara at that moment that Ashildr seemed more familiar with Missy than she had any right to be. She made a mental note to ask about it later.

She looked to Missy, thinking fast. “She’s definitely lying. But, if I’ve learned anything in the last few years - and we’d better bloody hope that I have - she’ll have buried the lie between a truth or two. Won’t you?” Clara regarded the Mistress carefully. Did she detect a brief glimmer of admiration? “Like the story about the Doctor, the stolen moon and the President’s _daughter_. Am I right?”

Missy smiled, wickedly. “Let’s find out!” She pushed past Clara and Ashildr to skip into the diner, awash with frenetic energy. The Mistress flung the doors open and stepped out into the bright sunshine of the planet beyond.

And Clara and Ashildr had no choice but to follow.


	4. Two Worlds Colliding

_“I was standing, you were there, two worlds colliding,_

_And they could never tear us apart”_

Never Tear Us Apart - INXS

* * *

Blinking against bright sunshine, Clara stepped out of the TARDIS and into a rolling meadow. On the horizon, a vast mountain range rose up out of a thick, green carpet of rainforest. The uniform trees exuded an ethereal mist while a hint of snow glistened across the ragged summits in the spring morning light, shimmering invitingly. The air was fresh and sweet. To the far side of the meadow, a single-laned road wound its way through the valley, punctuated by wooden traffic signs written in a language too cursive to be deciphered from a distance. Clara would almost have thought she was back on Earth if it weren't for the swirling, oppressive outline of a purple gas giant filling the sky overhead. Missy, a few metres in front, kicked at a flower and sent its yellow head flying from the toe of her boot, ruining the moment.

“Missy, wait.” Clara called, striding after her. Ashildr huffed out a breath and followed close behind. “Where are we? When are we?”

Missy produced her fob watch again and opened it expectantly as though she was counting down to something. And then they heard it; the familiar rasping of the Doctor’s TARDIS as it materialised about fifty feet away from where they were stood.

“Ta dah!” Missy declared, holding her arms up to present the TARDIS to them as though she had just magicked it out of thin air.

“How? How is that possible?” Ashildr cried, as she took in the solid blue box as it stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the surroundings.

“Do I really need to explain the basics of time travel to you?” Missy asked, cattily.

“She means how did you know he’d be here?” Clara didn’t particularly want this conversation to turn into a slanging match. She kept one eye on the phone box doors, simultaneously hoping and dreading the Doctor would emerge.

“Next time you steal a time machine, perhaps you should read the manual.” Missy said slowly, as though she was speaking to a particularly dense toddler.

“I did read the manual!” Ashildr said, affronted. “...Well, up to a point.”

“Maybe we should tell Gallifrey to make you one that’s cardboard and chewable? With plenty of pictures?”

“Oh god, can you just stop?” Clara barked. She was starting to get annoyed at this continual banter and was beginning to appreciate the Doctor’s low tolerance. “What now?  Why are we here?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious, Clara,” Missy swung around, practically dancing through the long grass, “We’re going to pay the Doctor a house call.” She waltzed up to the TARDIS and rapped sharply on the door with the handle of the umbrella she had somehow procured from inside the lining of her coat. Clara followed until she was stood next to her, practically leaning against the TARDIS.

“How does this help, Missy? Or are you just here to gloat?”

Whatever scathing response Missy was preparing was lost as the blue door hesitantly creaked open a crack. Anahson peeked out, nervously, taking in Missy and squinting faintly at the change in light outside compared to the time machine’s dim interior.

“Clara?” Her eyes raked across Missy again before gratefully settling on Clara, who smiled reassuringly. “What are you doing here? How did you -”

“Anahson, this is Missy.” Clara interrupted. “She’s a Time Lady. She’s not to be trusted and she’s an evil genius.”

Missy gave a rakish grin, “Oh, you’re making me blush!”

Clara resisted the urge to smack the aforementioned Time Lady across the face. “But, she’s probably our best way to help the Doctor. She knows Time Lord technology, she understands how the neural block works.” She paused, wondering why Anahson hadn’t opened the door further. “What’s wrong? Anahson?”

Anahson licked her lips as though her mouth had suddenly gone dry. Clara shared a look with Missy and quickly glanced over at where Ashildr stood a few feet away. Something was amiss, that much was clear. The young Janus was frightened, skittish. She was reluctant to let them in but clearly didn’t want to dismiss them either. A strange sensation prickled from the base of Clara’s neck and down her spine.

“Let me see him,” she ordered, pushing the TARDIS door open firmly so that it swung past where Anahson’s foot had been restricting its movement. Clara stepped inside the TARDIS and saw the lights swell slightly as if in welcome. She felt, rather than witnessed, Missy and Ashildr follow behind her and heard the door close. To say that it felt strange to be back in the familiar, comfortable console room after all this time would have been a dramatic understatement. She took a moment, adjusting her leather jacket, trying to reconcile the version of herself whose laughter and tears and naivete had bounced off these walls, with the woman who stood within them now: older, wiser, dead. Shrouded with loss and yearning, burdened with destiny. She felt almost as though she herself had regenerated in the time between then and now.

No time to wallow. She had to focus on what was important: the Doctor. Always the Doctor. There was no sign of him in the console room and that was worrying in itself. He wasn’t the type to pass up on the introductions to new planets. Clara looked around, noting the books strewn all over the stairs. Whereas before they had been carefully piled (admittedly in no order she could discern, although she had always suspected he’d done it by Dewey decimal without ever labelling the books as such), they were now flung with abandon, some of them open face-down on the floor. The walls were a mess of Gallifreyan graffiti, chalked across the roundels and half-smudged. Clara had seen enough.

“Where is he?” She turned to face Anahson and although she felt sympathy for the flustered companion, she was in no mood to show it.

“He’s in his bedroom. He’s been there for - a while,” Anahson stuttered. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I wanted to call but he wouldn’t let me, he thought it was a trap. But then he wouldn’t come out and I was so scared. We were just drifting in the vortex and I don’t know how to -” she gestured confusedly at the TARDIS console.

“The Doctor doesn’t have a bedroom,” Clara frowned, “he doesn’t trust a room that’s only got one function. Do you mean that he’s in the swimming pool? The library?”

Anahson shook her head. “No, he’s got a bedroom. It’s just a normal room. Down the hall usually, unless the TARDIS moves it. But the door won’t open; believe me, I’ve tried.”

Clara turned to face Ashildr who was already preparing an argument, she could tell. “I need to see him, Ashildr. That’s why we’re here, right?” She turned to include Missy who had been suspiciously quiet by the door.

“Yes,” she muttered, scuffing the floor with the toe of her boot as though she was reluctant to be helping. “You’re the thing the neural block is programmed to remove. If you’re present, the block will have to work harder to clear the memories of you - it will leave the others alone.”

“I can buy him some time,” Clara stated, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. “Ashildr, Anahson, I need you to figure out where we are and why. Maybe the TARDISes are here for a reason. Check the library, there are Gallifreyan texts…”

“Is she always this bossy? I knew she was a control freak but this is above and beyond -”

“Missy.” Clara rounded on the Time Lady. “Remember, you said you would help. You’re not done yet. Keep an eye on her,” this last part was to Ashildr, who nodded before crossing over the room and pulling Clara to the side, gently.

“Clara -”

“I know, I know. Be careful.” Clara gave her friend a reassuring pat on the hand. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do but it makes sense. Twisted, Time Lord sense but sense nonetheless.” Clara didn’t like it one bit: she didn’t want to rely on Missy’s information, she didn’t want to be around the Doctor when her very presence might cause him suffering, never mind what damage it might cause to her own, frayed emotions. But maybe, just maybe, if they could distract the neural block from his other memories for long enough, focus the block on her and her alone, the Doctor might just be able to recover enough to help the others to find a solution.

“Come and get me if you need me,” Ashildr said, understanding intuitively that this was something Clara had to do alone. “And remember -”

“We’ve still got the whole Hybrid thing to contend with, I know.”

“Yes, so don’t go jumping his bones this time,” Ashildr grinned slyly, trying to lighten the mood. It worked. Clara flushed and let out a laugh despite herself.

“Shut up. I wasn’t...We weren’t….Shut up.”

Something crashed to the floor at the other side of the room and the two whipped their heads to face Missy, who had clearly just tipped a pile of books over a ledge on purpose. Ashildr sighed, “I think I might have the harder task here. Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep her under control.”

“Hah, good luck with that,” Clara huffed, sending a glare in the Time Lady’s direction. She was definitely up to something, it was an unavoidable fact of her nature. Clara just hoped they would be able to cope with the inevitable fall out when the other shoe dropped. Right now though, she had to prioritise. A determined look furrowed her brow and she stepped down the stairs leading away from the console room, trying to not notice how tightly her hand grasped the railing to support her descent.

* * *

Ashildr watched as Clara disappeared into the corridor, trying to swallow back the urge to call her friend back to her side. This, frankly, stunk to high heaven. But, she had her orders and she needed to feel useful so she would follow them through until they became untenable, whatever the reason for that may be. Somewhere deep inside, Ashildr suspected she was going to have to speak some harsh truths to Clara before too much longer and she wasn’t looking forward to it, not one bit. Crisply, she turned away from the bristling sensation creeping up her spine, faced the two remaining women and fixed them with a stare.

“Right. First things first: where are we?”

Missy put her hand up like a schoolgirl who was eager to please, hopping from one foot to another. Like any good teacher, Ashildr ignored her entirely. “Anahson, you landed us here but you can’t fly the TARDIS. So how did you do it?” The TARDIS’ main console grumbled as though the ship knew she was being talked about. Ashildr suspected this was pretty close to the truth.

“I didn’t mean to,” Anahson said.

“Liar,” Missy piped up as she circled around the younger girl.

“Well, I suppose it was this-” Anahson held up a small data drive in one hand.

“What is it?” Ashildr asked, reaching out to take it from Anahson. Unseen, Missy removed the vortex manipulator from her wrist and placed it carefully onto a very specific part of the TARDIS console, pushing the bracelet into place with her finger until a small green light blinked back at her. Her lips quirked into a smile that she quickly smothered.

“Why don’t you just step outside and _see_ where we are?” She asked, rubbing her hands together with glee, doing a little dance away from the console, an easy distraction to pull off. “You two pop out, I’ll stay here.” Ashildr rolled her eyes. _Fat chance_.

“We’re on Haida,” Anahson replied, not seeing the point of keeping it a secret. “A planet called Haida. I’m not sure of the year. I got the coordinates from someone at the Shadow Proclamation, the TARDIS did the rest.”

“Okay,” Ashildr shook her head. “What’s so special about Haida?”

“It’s where I was conceived... Apparently.” Anahson shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the other women. “I didn’t want to come here! I just...I didn’t know what to do. There’s a port for the data drive over there, I just plugged it in and before I knew it -”

Ashildr wheeled the closest monitor around to face her and activated it, using the external cameras to scan their surroundings. Nothing seemed amiss. She could see her and Clara’s TARDIS where they had left it, looking completely and utterly out of place, as usual. She spun a lever on the console and checked out the 360 degree view. Pausing, she noted a column of trucks passing along the dirt road about a kilometer away. There was no sign that the two conspicuous machines suddenly stood in the middle of the meadow had attracted any undue attention but she indicated to Anahson, who looked over her shoulder. Zooming in on the image, they watched the procession. The trucks were large, a mix between military vehicles and seeming cattle wagons; there were about a dozen of them, snaking through the valley. Ashildr thought she spotted one full of armed guards but the vehicles were too far away to tell for sure. She watched Anahson’s expression closely.

“So, not a friendly planet, then?”

An impatient Missy swept forward and deftly tugged the hood down from Anahson’s head, making her yelp and stumble back. “Slaver planet! A planet full of Slavers! Although at least they have standards: only the best merchandise. Is my timeline making you feel queasy, my dear Janus?” Missy waved her hands in front of Anahson’s face as though to indicate the mess that was her timestream.

“I’m used to it, thanks.” Anahon bit back, tugging her hood back on to cover her second face, trying to feel defiant rather than afraid or ashamed and becoming increasingly annoyed when she didn’t succeed.

“Touchy about your roots, are you?” Missy teased. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you but they’re showing, sweetheart.” The Time Lady patted her bun delicately, not a hair out of place.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ashildr reassured Anahson, pushing the screen away. “They’ve gone.”

“What year is it?” Anahson asked. Her hand had clenched into a fist on the console rail. “We must have landed before the Revolt -” Ashildr shook her head, forcefully.

“Don’t,” she warned. “There’s nothing good that can come of knowing. We’re here, but we’re not going looking for trouble. There’s no time. Besides, we need to get reading those Gallifreyan texts.” She indicated to the bookcase leading away up the stairs. “Anahson, start up there and give us a shout if you find anything. We’re looking for anything about neural blocks or Time Lord memories.”

“Are we looking for a cure? So he can remember Clara?” Anahson asked, her face hopeful.

“There is no cure,” Ashildr firmly said, “don’t start thinking that way. The neural block doing damage is one thing, but the reason they did this to themselves in the first place still stands.”

Feeling guilty but strongly aware that someone had to maintain perspective, Ashildr crossed to the opposite stairs, holding up a finger as Missy was about to interject. “Ah, no. Missy, you’re with me. I want you were I can see you. Remember, the sooner we help the Doctor, the sooner you can be on your way.”

She should have known that something was up when the Time Lady acquiesced with only a small tantrum at being ordered around. However, Ashildr didn’t choose to dwell on it closely, too anxious herself to restore the Doctor’s memories, grab Clara and be on their way. Nor did she or anyone else notice, on the unwatched monitor in the centre of the room, the small group of armed militia creeping soundlessly across the meadow toward them.

* * *

Clara didn’t want to assume the TARDIS was pleased to see her - that would be daft - but she could sense that the ship wasn’t, at least, being openly hostile. The first corridor she followed led directly to the room the Doctor had ensconced himself. She wasn’t sure how she knew for certain, but there was a warm beam of light cutting through the dark which seemed to make this particular wooden door, ordinary and slightly scratched, stand out more than the others lining the walls. Delicately, Clara lay her hand on the rough wood, feeling its knots and grooves under the soft skin of her palm. She closed her eyes, taking a moment for herself. Being time-locked was mentally exhausting. She didn’t need to sleep anymore but, what with everything she had been through since Aechon - and even, if she was honest, from all the way back to the Trap Street - she needed rest; a few minutes away from prying eyes and sad, understanding gazes, time to gather herself and put everything into perspective.

 _Not going to happen_ , she thought, resolutely. _No point in whinging on about it._ Hesitantly, she raised her fist as if to knock on the door, not convinced it would work but lacking a more sophisticated plan. Before she could connect her knuckles with the wood, the door quietly, almost imperceptibly, creaked open. Something in her stomach flipped over. Without giving herself time to think about it, she pushed firmly forwards and stepped into the dark room beyond. Stepping out to face the Raven had been a breeze compared to this.

She entered the room and gently closed the door behind her, not wanting any errant Time Ladies to accidentally interrupt. Or, for that matter, paranoid Vikings or anxious Janus’. This was about her and the Doctor. She was the reason he was in this position, just as he was the reason she was in hers. Even now, with her dead and him incapacitated and potentially eroding away, it was their story that drove them forward. Or backwards. Or maybe slightly to the side. She’d lost track at this point. Her internal monologue stuttered and froze as her eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight that softened the edges of the room.

 _Her room_.

The room she had deleted when she had returned his TARDIS to him, along with his velvet coat and what she thought had been his final instructions. She looked around, eyes wide. _How can this be?_ She had made sure that it was fully deleted and removed all trace from the TARDIS that it had ever been there. Unless…

She noticed a couple of things were out of place. The room was a little bigger than she remembered, the walls a shade darker. She stepped into the centre, noticing reams of paper discarded on the floor, covered in writing. Bending, she picked up a piece and held it up to the light. Sheet music, largely blank but some notes were scrawled across the top bars in the Doctor’s inimitable hand. She picked up another, this time it had more notes scribbled across it, almost filling the page. Clara couldn’t read music but she thought she knew the tune as surely as she knew herself. An unexpected tear splashed onto the sheet she held, welling on a note that had been written, crossed out and replaced by another, making the ink swim. He’d been trying to record the song as he forgot it. As he forgot the story of her. And he’d rebuilt this room, more or less accurately, to do it in.

Her gaze drifted past the dresser which now had five mirrors instead of three - _rude_ , Clara briefly thought - before it settled on the large, canopied bed at the other side of the room. Lying in the middle, ramrod straight on top of the covers, his velvet coat and boots still in place, was the Doctor. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, his eyebrows furrowed and face lined as though he was fighting through intense pain. But his breathing was deep and even. Asleep or unconscious, it was hard to tell. Clara let the sheets of paper drift to the floor and wiped her face with the back of her hand. Carefully, she trod across the room avoiding the debris that littered the carpet, spying a sadly destroyed clockwork squirrel under an upturned chair.

She reached the bed and dithered, unsure of what to do next. Would her being in the room even help? Would it make his pain worse? Her mind flashed back to when he had first regenerated into this form, remembered how she had watched over him as he fought to regain himself in Victorian London. Fondly, she smiled as she thought about his past self, all floppy hair and gangly enthusiasm. She caught herself wondering, somewhat unfairly, whether that version of himself would have ended up in this predicament. In a way, this older version had been far, far more vulnerable than his bow tie wearing predecessor. She doubted he’d ever really dealt with Trenzalore properly. Well, how could he? No one should have to live through that. Without realising, Clara had perched on the side of the bed and laid her hand on his. Her mouth quirked upwards in a half smile; it looked as though her subconscious had decided on the best course of action.

“Doctor?” she whispered, but there wasn’t even a flicker of response.

She sat like that for a quiet few minutes, equally disappointed and relieved that the Doctor hadn’t instantly awoken at her touch.  Was it her imagination or was his brow slightly less furrowed than it had been when she had first approached? _With those eyebrows, it’s kind of hard to tell_. Uncomfortable with the way her back was twisted, she climbed further onto the bed, shuffling until she was propped with the pillows supporting her lower back, her head settling against the wooden head board. She looked down at the man resting next to her and lovingly picked up his left hand to hold it loosely in her own, pooled in her lap. With her right hand, she delicately started to run her fingers across the unruly curls that had fallen across his forehead. She watched, her unbeating heart full as the lines creasing his face relaxed. _It was working_ , whatever the hell she was doing seemed to be helping him.

She closed her eyes and allowed the feeling of calm at being in his presence again waft over her, allowing herself this one moment of weakness after all this time. Her fingers tangled in the hair at his temples and Clara had a flash of a dusty old barn in the middle of nowhere on Gallifrey. No wonder the Doctor was in such a state, she considered, a muscle twitching above her eyebrow as she remembered the creak of the rickety old wooden ladder as she’d climbed it, the cool skin of his ankle as she had grabbed it from underneath the bed; she was all over his timestream, permeating even his childhood. Before he’d even been the Doctor. _Had he suspected that this could happen when he’d picked up the neural block?_ The question lingered, unanswered. She would be furious with him if he had.

Her fingers brushed the Doctor’s temple again, rhythmic and soothing. Again, the barn crossed her mind but this time, she noticed with a jolt, it was daytime. _What?_ Her hand stilled in its motion as she looked down at the Doctor. She’d been at the barn during the day when they’d saved Gallifrey from the Time War, but then the barn had practically been a ruin. That wasn’t what she had just seen. Experimentally, she brushed her forefinger against his temple again, closing her eyes and trying to open her mind without feeling foolish about it. She shuddered, lost her focus and tried again. She made herself take a breath and hold it, her lungs inflating uselessly.

From the darkness behind her eyes, a flash of yellow. She tried not to flinch, instead focusing on the yellow blur, trying to move towards it in her mind. Suddenly, without warning, she was there: the barn. She felt her eyes flicker open and she cautiously looked from left to right. This was no memory. This wasn’t like anything she had ever experienced before. She could smell the hay that was strewn on the floor, see dust particles as they swirled upwards in the beam of sunlight that cut through the shade. Tentatively, she took a step, aware that she was still physically lying on a bed in the TARDIS, she could feel the firm support of the pillows at the small of her back but, at the same time, she could sense the crunch of the dirt beneath her feet. A shadow passed over her face and she turned towards it. There, at the top of the ladder, stood on the raised platform that housed his childhood bed, was the Doctor. Magnificent, towering, golden-silhouetted by the late afternoon sun.

She looked up at him, her mouth open in shock. He rested his hands on either side of the wooden barrier heavily, as if to hold himself up. As his face emerged from the shadows and her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she saw something in his expression that she had been missing for so long: recognition.

“ _Clara_?”

* * *

Clara jolted and gave a cry of alarm as the TARDIS bedroom threatened to supersede the image of the barn. The two locations strobed in her mind as she panicked. At some point between one vision of the barn and the other, the Doctor had leaped down the ladder and crossed the room in two broad strides. He was suddenly right in front of her, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.

The TARDIS bedroom loomed into the foreground and Clara could hear herself shout with dismay. _No, no, no!_ She scrunched her eyes shut and tried to focus again, to bring back the calm she had felt earlier. It was no good. The image of the Doctor flashed in front of her again, flapping frantically as if he was trying to tell her something but it was like trying to listen to a radio broadcast during a winter storm.

“Clara! -”

She felt something touch her left hand and looked down to where it was still grasping the Doctor’s in her lap. The barn fritzed to the foreground again and she saw that the Doctor had grabbed her hand and was raising it to rest on the side of his face. She nodded, pointlessly. She understood. As carefully as she could, not wanting to break the connection, she clambered awkwardly across the bed and straddled his sleeping body. She flattened her right hand carefully against his face, making sure to keep contact with his temples, then added her left hand on the other side until she was cradling his head. She closed her eyes and let out a breath, lowering her chin to her chest as she tried to clear her mind of all thoughts except one…

The sunlight on her face was warm and welcoming. She smiled without realising and opened first one eye, then the other. Her hands were still being held in place by the Doctor, framing his face. She locked eyes with him and drank him in.

“Have you got it?” He asked, sounding a little out of breath. “I’d tell you to focus on your breathing, but that wouldn’t work, would it?”

She made a sound that came out as a cross between a whimper and a laugh.

“Have you got it?” The Doctor asked again, wanting to make sure the connection was secure. His eyes twinkled, suspiciously wet. Clara nodded, not trusting herself to speak. “Just stay here. Stay with me. Think of _this_ as what’s real and you’ll be fine. Don’t get distracted. Although I know that might be a gargantuan task for you humans, what with your Facebooks and your Twitters.”

He gently took her hands and removed them from his face, squeezing them slightly as she tensed at the loss of contact.

“Doctor,” Clara began, worried.

“It’s okay. I think the link is secure.” He dropped her hands to her side and she instantly mourned the loss of contact. He stepped back slightly, tilting his head and regarding her with something resembling awe. “Clara Oswald. I should have known that only you would -”

The air was knocked out of him as Clara flung herself into his arms, throwing her own around his neck and clinging on for dear life. He folded his body around hers and she felt his arms tighten around her back, holding her to him just as closely. Embarrassingly, she couldn’t hold back the sob that erupted from deep down in her throat as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She felt, rather than heard, his low, joyful chuckle muffled somewhere close to the top of her head as his hand drifted up from her back to softly stroke her hair.

Pulling herself together, she loosened her grip and allowed him to stand upright. She smoothed down his jacket lapels with her hands and, lowering herself from her tiptoes, took a step back as he disentangled himself and dropped his own hands back to his sides, clenching his fists slightly as though to stop himself immediately reaching for her again. Her cheeks dimpled into a watery smile as she unconsciously matched his own goofy expression. Then, as her euphoria settled, she frowned.

“Okay, this is going to take some serious explaining,” she said, squinting at him. “What is this? We’re not on Gallifrey, this can’t be here.”

To her surprise, the Doctor reached out and took her hand in his, holding it tightly, almost too tightly, in between them. “Don’t think about where we are, you’ll disrupt the link.”

“God, you can’t tell me to _not_ think about something,” she scoffed, “that’s a classic way to actually _make_ someone think about it.”

“I miss you, Clara Oswald,” the Doctor interrupted, his voice cracking a little. She swung her eyes back up to meet his. “Here we are: you; functionally dead, me; the victim of a neural block that seems to have gone a little bit wrong, stood together for the first time in goodness knows how long via the power of telepathy in a psychic recreation of my childhood home on a supposedly extinct planet that’s hiding at the edge of the universe...and you’re telling me off.”

“So this is that touch telepathy, then?” She looked around the barn again, taking in the small details - the lengths of rope strewn on the floor, rusted nails bent and crooked, half hammered into rough pieces of driftwood. “I thought you said you were rubbish at it these days.”

“This is my Time Lord subconscious, unadulterated,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Besides, you’re the one who made contact. A stroke of genius, by the way. What made you think of it?”

Clara flushed. Despite everything, she was hardly about to admit to him that this was an accidental connection occurring simply because she had decided to run her fingers through his hair. She’d never live it down. “But you remember me. How can you remember?” She lifted up their joined hands to gesticulate between the two of them. “You don’t remember me out there. Do you know what’s happening to you? Do you have any idea -” she broke off as emotion tightened her throat and closed it.

The Doctor shook his head, lifting their hands and pressing a soft kiss onto her knuckles like he had done once before when words had failed him.

“Tell me.”

* * *

Anahson hefted the dusty tome across her arm to relieve the weight, flexing her wrist and hearing the joint give a satisfying crack. The Time Lords certainly liked to drone on and were not huge fans of indices. She hadn’t really stood much of chance at school, or as close to as school as Trap Street had been able to provide, and she could already feel her attention drifting. Stretching her aching leg out from the step she was using as a precarious perch, Anahson tried to figure out the last time she’d seen the sun or breathed fresh air. Mainly, she’d been worrying about the Doctor and trying to get him to stop scribbling in chalk all over the walls while he stubbornly refused to land the TARDIS anywhere ‘just in case’. Despite its infinite size, she could feel those same walls closing in on her now.

 _Huh_. The walls. What _had_ he been writing on them? And why hadn’t the TARDIS translated the text? She pushed the book to the side and stood up, flexing her arms to regain some of the circulation she’d lost. Hands on hips, she stared at the roundels and the smudged graffiti that seemed to lead from one to the other.

“Mayor Me..”

“...Yes?” Ashildr’s head popped up from within the wingback chair at the other side of the room. Anahson glanced at where Missy was sprawled across a chaise long, either asleep or faking it, and decided she had definitely got the raw end of the deal when it came to the seating arrangements.

“I was just thinking,” Anahson stuttered, uncertainly. “Before the Doctor locked himself away, he went a bit mad in here,” she pointed up at the walls and his incoherent scrawl. “Do you think it’s funny that the TARDIS isn’t translating it? I mean, we can read the Gallifreyan in these books, can’t we?”

There was a dull thud as the book Ashildr had been perusing fell to the floor. She stood up and made her way over to the railing to peer across at the chalk marks more closely. “That is strange. I hadn’t even noticed. ...Missy?” The Time Lady hadn’t moved from her chaise and didn’t seem to be paying them the least bit of attention. Ashildr grabbed one of the smaller books from a nearby pile and tossed it over so it landed with a stinging smack against Missy’s chest. A piercing blue eye pried open, like a kraken awakening.

“You’ll regret that, Viking.”

“Yes, I’m sure I will at some point, but right now that was very satisfying. I assume you were just pretending to be asleep?”

“It’s High Gallifreyan, that’s why you can’t read it. The TARDIS doesn’t translate High Gallifreyan.” Missy pulled out her pocket watch and checked it again, congratulating herself on her monumental patience. _Not much longer_.

“So what does it say?” Anahson asked, stepping forward as she watched Ashildr stand up and head down the staircase to get a better look at the writing. Missy gave a put upon sigh and sat up, running her hands down the arms of her jacket to smooth out imaginary creases.

“Answer the question, Missy.” Ashildr ordered. “And I swear to actual god, if the answer has been staring us in the face all this time and you’ve not said anything -”

“I’m _evil_ , remember?” Missy scoffed. “A Time Lady of ill-repute? I’m not here to be a Gallifreyan to English dictionary. You should be grateful I’m not using your spinal column as a loofah.” Swinging her legs to the floor, Missy stood up and twisted her neck to the side with an audible ‘pop’. “Fine. That bit there,” a precise nail pointed behind Anahson, “says: ‘ _...all that was will never be and all that never was encroaches’._ Bad Time Lord poetry.”

There was a moment of silence whilst the words registered. By themselves, without context, they didn’t really mean anything at all.

“What about this bit?” Anahson gestured to a particular grouping of letters. “It’s repeated here, and here. And over there, from the look of it…” She looked up at Missy and thought she saw a glimmer of something behind those terrifyingly astute eyes before the carefully constructed mask of indifference fell back into place.

“Gobbledygook,” Missy turned her palms face up in an affected shrug, “could be the universal symbol for ‘Jellybaby’ for all I know.”

Anahson looked away, disappointed. She had been convinced she’d been onto something. Suddenly yawning, it dawned on her how tired she was. Since their run in with Govian and the Doctor’s eventual realisation of the seriousness of his condition, she had barely had time to rest. The console room felt musty and suffocating and she couldn’t take it anymore. With quick strides, she walked over to the TARDIS door.

“I need some air,” she declared, forestalling any objection Ashildr was about to make. “I’m not going anywhere, I just… We’ve been in the vortex for a long time.” Without waiting for further argument, she opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine.

Leaning heavily against the wooden door of the TARDIS, she took several deep breaths, allowing the soft breeze to wash over her face. The spinning she had felt in the console room retreated, the dizziness passing. Anahson leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees for a moment. After a couple of minutes, she stood up straight, pushing herself away from the police box and allowing her legs to stretch a little.

 _So, this is Haida_.

She squinted into the morning sun. A flock of native birds squawked out of a nearby bush and took off into the air, flapping their silver wings until they could gracefully soar on a warm updraft. She watched as they ascended until they were silhouetted dots against the backdrop of the alpine landscape. Bending down, she ran her fingers over one of the yellow flowers that littered the grass, wet with dew. The ground beneath her feet felt solid and real, something she swore she would never take for granted again.

Anahson shuddered as she thought about the trucks they had seen heading along the dirt track so close to this oasis. It felt brutally normal here, in the light of day. Beautiful, by anyone’s standards. But Anahson knew that across the valley were towns and cities hidden amongst the hills. And in those towns were trading posts where her people were being bartered like possessions, sold to the highest bidder. Their abilities harnessed by violence and torture, their rights stripped and thrown away… She tried not to consider how, depending on the exact date, her mother could have been in one of those very cattle wagons they had spotted earlier. How _she herself_ could be on that truck too, an insignificant cluster of cells growing and developing, perhaps as yet unknown to the mysterious father who hadn’t lived beyond the uprising and even to Anah herself, the woman who desperately sought a better future for her daughter but ultimately never recovered from the ordeal.

 _Perhaps Mayor Me is right,_ Anahson mused, releasing the flower and straightening up, looking over to the diner TARDIS curiously, _maybe it is better not to think about it. This isn’t something I can -_

Pain lassoed around her torso and Anahson let out a strangled scream. She looked down, saw a ring of bright blue electricity shimmering around her chest, holding her arms by her sides. _Shit!_ She spun around, almost falling as she stumbled to her knee, thudding into a painful crouch. Five men were stationed between her and the TARDIS, their faces covered with masks. They had been so silent in their approach, so expert, that only the birds had noticed.

Anahson’s eyes widened in fear as she recognised the insignia on their uniforms. _Bounty hunters_. Struggling to her feet, she turned away from them and launched herself towards the diner at a flat out run, hoping against all hope that the door was unlocked.

* * *

The Doctor rested his back against the wall and scowled as he thought. His finger drew nonsensical patterns in the dirt and his left leg jiggled, knee drawn up towards his chest. He could feel Clara, sat next to him, the comfort of her arm brushing softly against his. He could almost sense her impatience rising as she waited for him to respond. _Well, this had all gone rather spectacularly wrong, hadn’t it?_ From what she had told him, he now knew what he had only feared: the neural block was taking him away, bit by bit, and he was terrified by the prospect of what would remain once its work was done.

“Doctor?” She nudged against him and he couldn’t help but smile, sadly. “I’m on a deadline here. Pun absolutely not intended.” He felt the connection between them waver a little as her mind clearly swam back to the version of himself lying on her bed in the TARDIS.

He pointed at a rusty piece of farming equipment in the far corner. “See that?” he asked, chancing to look her in the eye briefly, “I once cut myself on that thrasher when I was trying to help out on the farm one year. I’d broken it and tried to repair it before anyone found out. Blood everywhere, I thought I was going to regenerate there and then.” Clara gave him an encouraging smile but it was quickly followed by a frown and, for once, he understood the combination of expressions. He elaborated: “I have all these stories, Clara. Memories. Moments of time that shaped me, made me the man I am today, good and bad.” He reached out, leaving his intricate pattern in the soil and gently turning her hand wrist up, studying the tattoo of the Raven before slowly, deliberately running his finger over it. Clara shuddered, something behind her eyes flaring with heat. “What am I without those? What will there be left to tell me it’s not safe to shove my hand into the machine to pull out some tangled straw?”

His eyes met hers and he’d never felt more vulnerable. “You’re the Doctor,” she said, confidently. “And that’s not gonna happen. You hear me? Tell me what I need to do. Tell me how to save you.”

He gave a little huff and a shrug, looking lost. She pulled her wrist away from his distracting attentions. “So you realised you were losing your memories and you made this - what? - safe room? For your Time Lord subconscious.”

“For want of a better term, yes, I suppose I must have. Backed myself up before it had progressed too far. Good job I did, too. Thing about memory loss is that, at some point, you can’t remember that you’re forgetting things.” He chuckled but stopped when he realised she wasn’t joining in.

“Human compatible. The neural block was human compatible, right? That’s why your Time Lord subconscious can remember me,” Clara suddenly had a thought. “Does this mean -”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “Clara, no.” She slumped against him slightly and he felt something in his chest squeeze, painfully. Her head was on his shoulder and it was all too easy for him to turn his face and inhale her scent, consequences be damned. _It’s my subconscious, for crying out loud. I’ll do what I want._ “If my Time Lord subconscious rejoins the rest of me, I’ll go back to -”

“Forgetting me.”

“I almost don’t want to get better,” he admitted, quietly. “It wouldn’t be so bad, staying here. Even if it’s just with my memories of you.” He knew he’d said the wrong thing when she pulled away from him abruptly, scrabbling to her feet. “Clara -”

“No!” She whirled to face him, her hand held out to stop him from getting up to follow her. “You don’t say that. How _dare_ you say that?” He rested his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair, regretting his honesty. _Idiot_. “You realise, of course, that at this precise moment in time you’re lying on a bed in the TARDIS, unconscious and in pain? That none of this is real?” She faded slightly as she spoke, shaking off his panicked expression with a stomp of her foot. “This, this right here,” she flapped her hand to indicate the two of them, “this is why we’re in this position to begin with. The Universe is currently without the Doctor. And you’re willing to just lay back and disappear? Just because you -” Her anger suddenly dissipated, like all her energy had left her. She moved towards him and crouched in front of him, her hands replacing his elbows on his knees to support herself. He wearily raised his head to meet her gaze. “Well, I’m not going to let it happen. And no, you don’t get a vote.”

He watched as she rubbed a tired hand across her face and pushed herself up and away from him. He struggled to his feet, carefully making his way over to her and hesitantly resting his hands on her shoulders, stepping forward until her back was flush against his chest. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped as he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow pass along the wall of the barn. The shadow paused, and he imagined he saw the outline of a man. Inexplicable, unwelcome. The Doctor frowned as the shadow slowly faded, vanishing from the wall as though it had never been there. _Impossible_ , he thought. _How could there be anyone else here?_ He felt Clara’s fingers tangle with his on her shoulder and redirected his thoughts.

“You’re going to wake up.” She said, firmly. “You’re going to fight this.”

“Clara Oswald,” he intoned, pulling her around to face him, “you’re still always exactly what I need.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she said, eyes twinkling.

He laughed. _Ah, memory loss humour. Some of the best there is._ “Besides, I can’t sit around here all day, it’s cramping my style.” He paused, watching her intently. His expression sobered.  “I won’t know you when I wake up,” he croaked, annoyed that his own voice would betray him even within a psychic construct. He raised his hand to her face as she had done to him what felt like a lifetime ago. “I can rejoin my human consciousness and maybe this break will have slowed the neural block down, but I won’t remember we were here -”

“So tell me what you need,” she said, her face serious. “How can we keep you functioning long enough to fix this?” She distantly thought she heard a noise in the TARDIS and widened her eyes momentarily as she felt herself being dragged back into the bedroom by it. Her vision of him swum before her, fading.

“Two things. Well, three.”

“Okay, tell me. Quickly.” The Doctor watched as she fought to stay with him and made a snap decision. He leaned closer, dipping his head towards hers and capturing her lips with his own. He felt her gasp of surprise. It was a chaste kiss, barely a brush of contact. “One; don’t trust Missy,” he whispered against her mouth.

Clara pulled away slightly, her focus no longer on the noises coming from the TARDIS. “Seriously? The first time you kiss me and you’re talking about -”

He kissed her again, this time a longer contact that Clara returned, chasing after his lips with her own, feeling his hand clench in her hair. With a soft pop, they broke apart. “Two; Anahson. She might be able to help, her abilities…” Was that his voice, sounding so low? His eyes roamed over her face, as though he could sear her image onto his retinas for when his memory failed him again. He felt her fists clutch onto his lapels and smugly noted that she _really_ must like this jacket.

“What’s the third thing?” Her gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips and back. He smirked. Given the circumstances, there were more painful ways to say goodbye. By his count, this was their best final goodbye so far.

“There wasn’t a third thing.” He stumbled a little as she wove her hands around his neck and pulled him to her. Their mouths angled against each other and he briefly considered how surprisingly normal this felt, how right. Her mouth opened under his and he dimly heard one of them groan as they pressed flush together.

Then, as suddenly as she appeared, Clara was gone.

As he stood out of breath in the middle of the barn, he could hear the Cloister bell of the TARDIS peeling urgently but faintly, as though the noise was carrying from many miles away. He clenched his fist into a ball to ward off his sense of loss - _he’d promised her_ \- and, closing his eyes tightly, exhaling gradually, made himself focus solely on the sound and begin to move inexorably towards it.

* * *

Ashildr shook the handle of the TARDIS door violently, swearing under her breath. The bloody thing wouldn’t budge. The Cloister bell rang loudly as the proximity alarm, useless until this very second, beeped discordantly along with it. She flung a look over her shoulder to Missy, who at least had the grace to look surprised at the commotion.

“Missy, I can’t get the door open!”

Missy swung the monitor around to Ashildr. “You won’t be able to, the TARDIS has gone into lockdown until the threat has gone.”

Ashildr raced to check out the images playing on the screen: Anahson was running towards the diner TARDIS at full pelt but, with her arms held down by her sides, she was never going to make it. The armed men took aim before blasting their weapons. Arcs of blue light shot across the meadow and into Anahson’s back. Each shot hit its mark. The young woman instantly dropped to the floor, twitched a couple of times and then lay still. The men steadily crept toward her, staying in formation. Ashildr roared with anger. “ _No!_ They can’t do this!”

She raced back over to the door, pulling on it with all her might. She screamed for the TARDIS to listen, but the ship did not respond.

Coolly, calmly, Missy picked up the vortex manipulator from where it had finished charging. She delicately fastened it back around her wrist. “Don’t worry,” she cooed to Ashildr, in a pantomime of caring, “they won’t kill her, it’s bad for business.”

The militia bent to pick up Anahson’s body and began to carry her away. Ashildr rounded on Missy, furious and scared. This fear multiplied as, wide-eyed, she registered what the bracelet was. Missy held it up with a triumphant flourish. “Missy, whatever you’re about to do -”

It was too late. The Mistress quickly keyed in some coordinates and raised a perfectly manicured hand to wave her farewell. Whatever acerbic comment was about to leave the Time Lady's lips was lost as she instantly vanished from view, only a flash of light and a brief gust of air indicating her departure.

* * *

He opened his eyes, one at a time.

He was lying on his bed, fully clothed. _Must’ve had a catnap_. _Feeling much better -_  He froze as he realised a woman was holding his face in her hands...and straddling his hips. And she was staring at him like he’d ripped out her heart and thrown it into a wastepaper basket.

_Oh! Oh. This is unexpected._

The Doctor sat bolt upright, sending the woman tumbling to the floor with a yelp and a crash. She knocked something off the dresser on her way down and he flinched as it made a shattering noise that very much indicated it was broken. He shook his head and looked desperately around for whatever demonic alarm clock he’d purchased which was currently making that awful racket.

“Doctor!” He peered over the side of the bed and into a pair of wide brown eyes. He frowned.

“Who are you?” To his surprise, and he found this a bit rude considering _she_ was the one straddling _him_ in _his_ bedroom, she rolled her eyes as though exasperated.

“I’ll fill you in later; it’s the Cloister bell, quick!” She was up on her feet in a matter of seconds, grabbing his hand and practically dragging him out of bed, across the room and through the door. As he tried to catch up mentally, his memories of the last few days flooded his mind: hitting Anahson, his blustering righteousness towards Govian, scribbling on the walls of the console room - he had a flash of High Gallifreyan he had written in an almost catatonic state. He stopped short, almost wrenching the woman’s arm from her socket.

“No, no,” he muttered. “It’s not safe, I’m dangerous to be around. I shouldn’t be -”

For the third time in as many minutes, she surprised him, stepping into his personal space and appraising him gently. “You’ll be fine. We’re here to help.” She tugged him along again and he stumbled willingly behind, for some reason trusting this stranger who seemed to know the corridors of his ship better than he did. “ We just need to -”

They had reached the console room and skidded to a halt. Me was stood in the centre of the room, watching something on the monitor, her hands braced either side of the screen as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Ashildr?” Clara asked, stepping away from the Doctor as he took in the destruction he’d wreaked on the walls. “What is it? What’s happened?” She looked around the room. “Where’s Missy?”

“Missy?” The Doctor said sharply, causing Ashildr to spin around and gape at him before returning her attention to the screen. “Missy’s here?”

“Oh god, no,” Ashildr suddenly cried, sounding strangled. “Clara, look -” She indicated on the monitor before stepping away, visibly shaken. Clara and the Doctor crossed to the console and both grabbed the screen, pulling it between them so they could view it.

A 1950’s diner, completely out of place and time, was slowly dematerialising on the screen, fading out of sight.

Within seconds, all that remained was an empty green meadow, yellow flowers swaying gently in the breeze. Clara felt her eyes glaze over with tears. _Her TARDIS_. She could sense Ashildr’s rage and the Doctor’s confusion bubbling next to her but she couldn’t bring herself to face them. Not right at that second.

Everything fell quiet; the Cloister bell finally ceased. The TARDIS door swung gently open of its own accord. After all, the threat was gone.

* * *

 


	5. So You Think You Can Tell - Part I

_“So, so you think you can tell, Heaven from Hell,_

_Blue skies from pain._

_Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?_

_A smile from a veil?”_

Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd

* * *

The room was bare. Concrete walls, no windows, a naked bulb swinging desolately from the centre of the ceiling like an afterthought. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, feeling rough, impacted dirt scratch and irritate her skin, raw from where the electric charge had struck. Anahson coughed, retching and wretched. Her throat was screaming for water as she looked around the confines of her cell, eyes tearing and straining in the dim light. She had no idea what time it was, what day it was, _where_ she was.

In the corner was a bowl on the floor, chained to the wall. She hesitated before slowly, painfully, crawling over to it. Staring into the tepid water it contained, she decided it was probably safe to drink although not even remotely fresh. If she was still being held by the bounty hunters, chances were they wanted their prize alive. Tentatively raising the bowl to her lips, she took a sip. The water had the tang of mildew. She almost choked, but it soothed her throat as she tipped her head back and desperately gulped the rest down. She spluttered as the chain restricted the angle and the last drops of water dribbled down her chin. Wiping herself clean with the sleeve of her hoody, she gasped in the stale air and tried to calm her erratic heartbeat.

She put the bowl down and maneuvered to brace her back against the wall, pulling her knees into her chest defensively. She pulled her hood up for warmth and rocked backwards and forwards for a moment, her mind racing as her eyes adjusted to the dank squalor. _Okay, okay_. She breathed out slowly like her mother had taught her back when memories of their journey to get to Trap Street on overcrowded transport ships had threatened to overwhelm her as a child. She clenched her jaw, determinedly. She was not a child. She was not a victim. Not anymore.

_I am not a slave._

She sniffed loudly before holding her hands out in front of her, watching as their trembling slowed through the force of sheer willpower.

_I am not a slave. I have saved planets._

Something pinched sharply at her right temple and she lifted her fingers up to touch the source of the sensation. Instead of skin, she found a small metallic disk. She pulled her hand away as though she’d been burned. Filled with dread, she swallowed against her fear and probed the disk carefully. She’d heard of these. It was embedded into the skin and, she knew, electronic tendrils were even now creeping their way across her cerebral cortex, rewiring her brain, usurping her abilities so they could be controlled, used to benefit her owner. _An inhibitor._

Anahson’s swell of terror threatened to overtake her but she clamped down on it, scrambling to her feet, ignoring the burst of dizziness behind her eyes. She would not just sit there and wait for them to take her. She would _not_ just sit there and wait for a rescue that would likely never come. An image of the Doctor flashed tantalisingly in front of her, a remnant of hope. But the Doctor was out of commission, and she was alone. She paced the small space before pressing her hands against the firm seal of the door that only allowed a thin crack of light to invitingly pass through.

 _I am not a slave_ , she thought resolutely. _I have saved planets._

Footsteps echoed outside the door, growing closer until they stopped outside her cell. A jangle of keys, a muttering of voices. A shadow blocked the thin sliver of light that stretched across the ground. Anahson stepped back and stood almost at attention, head high, jaw strong.

 _I have saved planets. And I am going to save myself_.

* * *

The teaspoon cheerfully clinked against the cup. Ashildr tapped it against the rim a few times to shake off the excess and then passed the cup over to Clara who was sat slumped against the breakfast bar in the first kitchen they had been able to find on the TARDIS. Clara raised her head wearily and muttered a ‘thanks’, then wrapped her fingers around the cup more for the comforting warmth than anything else.

The Doctor paced up and down, trying to wrap his mind around what the two women had patiently tried to explain to him, having decided the truth would be the one thing that would stop him from running off to save the day before he had fully recovered himself. Ashildr ladled sugar into his own tea and set it down for him on the counter next to the one he now knew was called Clara. The one he’d apparently travelled with at some point but could not recall, a result of his own hand. _Why would I do that?_ It was a lot to take in and he wasn’t entirely sure he believed them. Too much about this felt like a trap. He chewed on his finger as his thoughts tried to reconcile themselves with the grey holes in his memory. There was, however, no faking the significant chunks that were missing, and he could dimly recall choosing to meditate to regain some control after he’d lashed out at Anahson. _Anahson_. Anahson was missing and here he was, having tea. He practically growled and picked up his pacing. Where was she? Who had taken her?

“Doctor, for god’s sake, sit down for a minute will you?” Clara’s tone brooked no argument and, even though he didn’t really know why, he did as he was told and went still. Maybe he did need a sit down. The meditation had helped him to focus and slow the progress of the neural block but he could still feel its fuzzy outline at the edges of his consciousness. Clara shifted slightly for him to be able to squeeze onto the stool next to hers, their shoulders brushing. Ashildr frowned slightly at their closeness and the Doctor made a mental note of it.

“So,” the Doctor said, slowly, taking a sip of his tea and burning his tongue a little, “we need a plan.”

“How much time do you think we have?” Clara looked at him and he found himself gazing back into her fascinating brown eyes, trying to decipher who she was, what she was to him. _Nothing_. Just white noise, like a radio station that couldn’t be tuned properly.

“Time?” Ashildr asked, leaning her elbows against the breakfast bar.

“Before my Time Lord subconscious gives in to the neural block. Before the damage is irreversible and I’m not ‘me’ anymore,” he clarified. He hadn’t dared to mention to them what he suspected would happen if he reached that point. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure himself nor could he be certain he could trust them with his frightening hypothesis. “I’m not sure but judging from the meditative state I was in, I clearly didn’t think I had long left. I’ll have bought a little bit of time, I just hope it’s enough.”

“So we find Anahson,” Clara said, firmly, “we ask her to use her abilities to - I don’t know - to restore your memories? Repair the damage? Will she even know what to do?”

“That doesn’t matter,” the Doctor said dismissively. “We find Anahson full stop. It’s my fault she was captured.”

“Actually, it’s my fault,” Clara interrupted, “but assigning blame doesn’t do us any good. And her priority is getting you better as well, so don’t you insult her friendship by playing the martyr.”

“We have to tread carefully,” Ashildr warned. “No one can know we were here together on this planet, you two in particular.” The Doctor frowned, noticing the sharp look that passed between the two women.

“Why?”

Clara shook her head, “It isn’t important. Just trust us when we say it’s not a good idea to go into this all sonic screwdrivers blazing. Ripples, not tidal waves. We rescue Anahson, fix you, we leave and then we try to track Missy, give her a good slap, and get back our TARDIS if we can. That’s the way it’s got to be.”

Ashildr suddenly pushed away from the counter and drained the rest of her cup. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, sounding brighter than she had for days. “Wait here, I’m going to check something,” she briskly walked out of the kitchen and took the right turn into the corridor beyond. Clara smirked, looking beside her to see the Doctor’s face had also twisted into a little smile.

“Wait for it,” she murmured. A faint ‘ _damn it_ ’ floated through into the kitchen from the hallway and, after a couple of seconds pause, they saw Ashildr pass in front of the door again, heading in the opposite direction, the correct direction, towards the console room. Clara gave a little huff of amusement; the TARDIS corridors could be a labyrinth for the uninitiated. Well, for anyone really. She could feel the Doctor watching her and took a quick sip of her tea to cover her discomfort.

“We really did travel together?” he asked, still struggling with the concept. She nodded mutely. “Clara -” he paused, as though he was trying out how the name sounded rolling off his tongue. _Clara, Clara, Clara_. He noticed how she stiffened as he said it. “Clara, I’m sorry.”

She looked at him. “Whatever for?”

“Well, you’re dead - time-locked, even - and I can’t remember you. Seems like the kind of thing I should be apologising for,” he squinted at her, awkwardly.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she said softly, her eyes shining. “We had the time of our lives.”

“Yeah?”

“God, yeah.” It fell quiet between them and the Doctor felt as though he’d just missed out on a private joke. This was going to take some getting coming to terms with. He experienced a rush of compassion for the young woman sat next to him but he tried to dampen it. It could all be ruse, yet. Hurried footsteps announced Ashildr’s return and, for some reason, the Doctor felt the need to stand up and move away from Clara as though they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Luckily, the immortal woman was too busy holding up a transparent sheet she’d printed off from the console to pay them much attention.

“Thought so!” she declared, waving the flimsy plastic at them. “What’s the least intrusive way to rescue a slave?” She placed the print out on the table between them. There was a slight delay between them reading the cursive text and the TARDIS translating and, for a moment, the letters swam on the page before them. After a second, they rearranged themselves into English, proudly announcing in a bold font:

 **JANUS AUCTION - TOMORROW NIGHT**.

* * *

The change of clothes felt decadent after her previous outfit, which had become a little ripe; the stench of decomposed Dalek had woven itself into the fabric and she was surprised no one had mentioned it. The stolen TARDIS’ wardrobe had reluctantly adjusted to her request for Victorian chic and Missy felt a surge of triumph as she rolled her long, black elbow-length gloves in place. _Much better_. She twirled around the white console room, briefly feeling annoyed that she didn’t have anyone there to witness her glory but then, she reasoned, that would somewhat defeat the point of her dastardly escape.

The spent vortex manipulator was sequestered away in a drawer, redundant now that she had access to her very own TARDIS. She’d have to try to do something about the horrible exterior but, she reluctantly admitted, Clara Oswald hadn’t done a bad job with the console room. She doubted the sense of design had come from the Viking.

All of time and all of space, now hers to enjoy again. _But first_ … Intrigued, she stepped around to the flashing light she had spotted on the console when she had first entered the TARDIS. Yes, it was still there, blinking away. _Blinky blinky blink blink_. As if sensing her attention, the light pulsed faster. _Hmm_ . It was tempting to ignore it, have a few adventures before she decided to activate the beacon. There was probably a space station whose orbit she could derail, a coup or two she could encourage, an invention she could facilitate, perhaps of a devastating weapon. _Maybe even a death ray. There aren’t enough death rays in the universe._

However, her curiosity was aroused and that normally took quite a bit of effort. Why had Gallifrey been trying to contact the two interlopers? Was it related to the Doctor’s current state of mind? Of course, Clara and Me hadn’t been aware what the flashing light had meant - they probably thought it was the WiFi or something - so it was a classic example of Time Lords overestimating their quarry and assuming things would just work out. The thought of the stuffy High Council waiting to hear back from a time-locked Human and a functionally immortal Viking made her laugh. Even more delicious would be the look on their faces when, after all that waiting, it was the Mistress herself who chose to respond.

Her mind made up, Missy entered the controls on the console to activate the beacon. Striking a dramatic pose, she stood in front of the monitor and waited for the connection to complete. A voice came through the speakers first:

“Miss Oswald? Miss Oswald. This is Gastron of the Citadel Guard from the planet Gallifrey.” Missy faked a yawn. Oh, how she’d never had time for their formalities. “Please, Miss Oswald, do not be alarmed. We wish you no harm. We only wish to discuss a most urgent -”

Missy had relaxed her pose out of boredom but quickly adopted it again as the monitor flickered into life; left hand demurely on her hip, elbow pointed outwards, right framing her face in what for all the worlds looked like the beginnings of a ‘vogue’ routine. The voice stuttered as the image settled. _Business as usual._

“An urgent what?” she drawled, using her most coquettish voice.

“Erm…” The young man - handsome, if you liked that kind of thing - looked down as though he was looking for a response on the communications array in front of him. He was wearing full military uniform and, from the look of his epaulettes, he was a Major. He looked however, very shiny and new to Missy - _fresh meat_ \- and she relished in his discomfort.

“Sorry,” Gastron blustered. “Ma’am. Do you...Do you mind if I put you on hold?”

Missy arched a severe eyebrow. “Do you mind if I reverberate a sonic feedback loop and make your brain dribble out of your ears?” The young man blanched.

“No, no, of course. I mean… One moment.” Gastron leant slightly out of shot and fumbled with his communicator, talking quietly but quickly to the person on the other end. Missy only caught snippets of the conversation but she made a note to correct this soldier later on the correct term for a _female_ Master. After a moment, he fully appeared in the frame again, more confident now he had his orders to follow. For a fleeting second, Missy pitied him and his lack of autonomy. For all her bluster and charade, she never took her freedom for granted.

“Ma’am. I am going to send some coordinates through to your TARDIS console. The location of Gallifrey. Your presence has been requested at a meeting of the High Council.” They would probably put her trial for her life and exile her into the Matrix. She had spent so long looking for her people - and not just so that she might have the option to idly slaughter them some day - but Missy was under no illusions the reunion would be a happy affair.

“A meeting? Can’t you just send me the minutes?”

“I have been assured you will be under a protection order for the duration of your visit. You will be afforded every courtesy.”

“I wasn’t worried about courtesy, I was worried it would be deathly dull,” Missy retorted. She watched as the coordinates flashed up on a second monitor above the console. The edge of the universe at the end of time? She should have tried there first. “Tell your organ grinder I’ll be there soonish,” she said, abruptly cutting off the communication. _Let them make of that what they will._

For a second, a second that ostensibly did not take place since it happened firmly wedged within the time vortex and there was no witness to it, the mask fell from the Mistress’ face as she took in those coordinates, bracing one hand on the console.

 _Gallifrey_.

* * *

The city was filled with energy and, for some reason, reminded Clara of April in Manchester on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Perhaps it was the happy clash of old and new; towering skyscrapers standing shoulder to shoulder with old, smog-stained stone monuments to a proud industrial past. The city was nestled in the shadow of the mountain range to the North and protected by a calm inlet where barges and ships laden with large containers jostled for space. It was all perfectly pleasant... as long as you didn’t look too closely beneath the surface.

As they walked the narrow streets bustling with rough-hewn markets, they were hailed jovially by the traders who were trying to entice them to visit their stalls. Ashildr led the way as their cover story hinged upon her ability to resurrect the reputation of Lady Me. Clara and the Doctor were under instructions to keep a low profile, with Clara under separate and equally strict orders to monitor the Doctor’s condition. As they strolled side by side behind Ashildr, Clara could almost pretend it was like the old days: the Doctor and Clara Oswald, ambling around an alien market, trying to avoid anything that would cause one or either of them to grow an extra sense organ. Again.

Interspersed with the Haidan market-goers were Janus women, walking freely in the streets as they carried heavy bags full of shopping. Clara was surprised and this must have been reflected on her face. The Doctor leaned in and whispered in her ear.

“Don’t be fooled. See those metal disks?” She nodded, pretending to look at a purple vase on one of the stands as she watched Ashildr talking to a tall suited and booted gentleman a couple of stalls away. “They’re inhibitors. The Janus women couldn’t escape if they wanted to. One zap of the inhibitor and they’d be overcome with visions of everyone in the market’s pasts and futures. Instantly debilitating and exceptionally painful.” His face darkened. “We need to find out where Anahson is being held.”

“I’ve only seen women,” Clara noted, shuffling on to another retailer who was selling vibrant scarves and what looked suspiciously like electric umbrellas - a bad idea if she’d ever seen one. “Where are the Janus men?”

The Doctor appraised her with a hint of admiration. “Good question. See all these electrical doohickeys?”

“Doohickeys?” Clara raised a single eyebrow at the term. She looked around them and across the market, noticing for the first time how the guards who patrolled the market seemed to carry electric lassos on their belts; blue, shimmering coiled whips. Beyond the market, she could see a similar glow within some of the high-rise office blocks.

“Haida’s biggest export - it’s mined in the mountains. They call it Gremshall. Centuries ago it was believed to have magical properties but eventually they learned it’s a bio-luminescent mineral with its own naturally occurring current. Remarkable, really…” Ashildr had finished talking to the man and was making her way back over to them, looking every bit the business woman on a mission. The Doctor waved away a vendor trying to get him to buy a silver necklace for Clara. “It’s an exceptional material but instead of harnessing its energy to excel in science or medicine or the arts, they choose to use it to imprison a whole race of people; the men mine the Gremshall, the women and their abilities are controlled by weapons powered with it. The rest they sell to the galactic arms trade.”

Clara shuddered. The Haidans were not human but seemed to be closely related, as far as she could tell. _Close enough to make the same mistakes and refuse to learn from them_. A material like that should ensure Haida was a planet to be reckoned with in terms of its technological advancement but she could spot squalor and poverty on every corner. It didn’t look as though the wealth was trickling down at all. She cut off her train of thought as Ashildr reached them, checking quickly over their shoulders to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard.

“We’ve got an invitation for the auction tonight. It sounds like Anahson is in the second lot of slaves - the broker I was just speaking to seemed very proud to be able to offer up an exotic young empath with ‘untold abilities.’” Ashildr hid her disgust well.

“So that’s it? We just wait?” The Doctor scowled and tightened his hand around what Clara knew was the pocket containing his sonic screwdriver. She placatingly touched his arm.

“We have to. We need to do this quietly.” She turned to Ashildr, with a small smile. “Nice work, Lady Me. Shall we scope out the auction venue, then?”

Ashildr nodded and began to lead them out of the market. As they brushed past the throng of shoppers, Clara noticed the Doctor stumble slightly, his fingertips abstractedly brushing his temple before he recovered himself. If he noticed her concerned expression, he chose to ignore it.

* * *

The truck creaked and groaned as it rounded a tight corner. Anahson slid across the bench and into the Janus sat next to her, their shackles clanking together loudly. The stench of fuel was making her head spin, waves of nausea growing the longer they spent on the road. She shimmied back to her original position and leaned her head towards a crack in the rusted metal, trying to suck in fresh air. The Overseer sat opposite her kicked her foot with his boot and she shot him a glare, snarling her lip, split from where he had ‘convinced’ her to get into the truck in the first place.

“Keep still, 342,” the Overseer warned from behind his mask, “or you can be dragged behind the truck instead.”

The other six Janus shrank back as though this wasn’t just an idle threat. Anahson doubted very much that it was and forced down another wave of nausea completely unrelated to her motion sickness. When they had come for her, their brutality had been swift and effective. Any plan she had to try and make a break for it from her cell had come crashing down around her in the blinding flash of the Gremshall whip. Realising she was becoming lost in the memory, she shook her head a little, trying to clear a path through the fume haze. She had to stay in the moment. She had to notice any little detail that could help her get away and safely back to the TARDIS although, she registered with increasing alarm, she had no idea how far away from the time machine she had travelled. _Worry about that later_ , she thought to herself in an inner voice that sounded surprisingly Scottish, _first things first: how do you escape_?

There was a sudden change in the engine noise and the brakes squealed as the truck came to an abrupt halt. Everyone, even the Overseer, rapidly slid heavily along the bench towards the front, squashing each other and crying out at the impact. Anahson winced as her shackles dug into her ankles. The Overseer banged on the divide separating them from the front cabin and swore angrily at the unseen driver. Anahson looked around the other slaves, reading the fear on their faces. Some of them clutched onto each other as the sensation began to creep in that this was not a scheduled stop or even simply bad driving. She felt her heart-rate increase, preparing for whatever was going to be thrown at her next.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something out of place. A male Janus, sinewy and muscular, face half covered in an unkempt beard. He was on the bench opposite, squashed between two older women. It took Anahson a moment to figure out what was off about him: his expression. He was not surprised at all by the sudden break in their journey, if anything, he looked pleased. Anahson frowned. To her astonishment, he sensed her scrutiny and caught her eye. _Was that a wink? Did he just wink?_ She quickly averted her gaze to the floor, taking a second to grasp onto the chain that joined her wrists together. If she was going to have to fight her way out of this, she wanted to stand a chance...

The rear doors of the truck crashed open. Light blazed in, blinding everyone. Anahson heard shouting, saw the Overseer leap to his feet, hand on whip. There was a blue flash which almost enveloped her too and the Overseer slammed into the side of the truck before crumpling to the floor in a moaning heap. The bearded Janus had jumped to his feet and started bustling the other startled slaves out of the back. Someone outside - it was too bright to see who - was helping them down and away from the wagon. Anahson braced herself and lingered at the back, trying to grasp what was happening. The man reached for her, holding out a shackled wrist.

“Come with us!” he urged, his face urgently sincere. “Be free, Sister.”

Cautious, but appreciating her ridiculous good fortune, Anahson shuffled over to him. She lifted her hands up to shield her face from the harsh sunlight and squinted down at the arms reaching for her, only able to to make out clunky weapons slung over broad shoulders. She crouched as best she could and leaned towards them, letting them grab under her arms and lift her down from the truck. Her feet hit the dirt road as she glanced over her shoulder to see the Overseer groaning and beginning to come round. A clank and a thud and her shackles were removed. She rubbed her wrists gratefully.

Disjointedly, she heard the male Janus ask for them to throw a weapon up to where he towered above them. Hands on her elbows tried to lead her away but Anahson firmly rooted herself to the spot, suddenly awash with dread as she watched the former slave press the muzzle of his rudimentary weapon firmly against the whimpering Overseer’s temple.

“No! What are you doing?!”

But her cry was too late: the Gremshall charge crackled horribly as it arced over the helpless man’s skull. Anahson struggled away from her rescuers and leaped back up into the van, kicking out as she felt a hand try to pull her out by her ankle. Surging to her feet, she barged past the confounded slave and fell to her knees next to Overseer. Travelling with the Doctor had taught her a number of lessons she held close to her heart. They should have given this man a chance. They should have given him the option to surrender, to live. “What have you done?” she shouted at them all, her voice breaking as she was suddenly hit with a wave of anguish as it rippled out of the Overseer.

Gently, she lifted his head and cradled it in her lap. He wasn’t quite dead but, from the way he was gasping and croaking, she knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Her fingers fumbled over the mask that covered his nose and mouth but it was useless, the charge had fused the material to his skin. Anahson felt the familiar flare as her empathic abilities kicked in. Pulling her hood down with one hand, tears fell from her eyes and dropped down onto the Overseer’s cheek as she tried to absorb some of his suffering. She reached out with her mind, searching for his and quickly finding a tumultuous red blaze of pain and fear, rapidly fading. One sensation came to her, stronger than all the others: _His mother. He wants his mother_.

Anahson closed her eyes as her second face animated, searching the Overseer’s past for the image of his mother. She glanced off a hundred different memories: of a dingy bedroom dappled with green spring light and raw grief, a body lying motionless under a sheet; the rasp of harsh, laboured breathing, of liquids lifted delicately to chapped, dried out lips; of stuttering steps into a cobbled street, tucking frayed blankets around frail shoulders, the low winter sun punctuating grey shadows on hollowed out cheeks; of clasping hands in sterile rooms whilst murmuring voices discussed payment and outcomes. The images came thick and fast, skipping as she felt the Overseer’s breath stutter and hold: glasses raised in cheer, lipstick-coated smiles and a kiss to the temple that had to be furiously, fondly rubbed away. Anahson clung to the moment and replayed it, pushing the image forwards in an aura of comforting warm light. With all she was, she focused on the dying man, distantly watching as his lips curled impossibly upwards.

And then he was gone.

Anahson slumped against the side of the truck, feeling weak and shaken. She looked up at the awestruck man still towering over her, weapon hanging loosely at his side. At the entrance of the truck, the silhouetted figures of their rescuers stood motionless.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” she croaked as she quickly unzipped her hoody and folded it up before placing it under the Overseer’s head. Stumbling, she tried to get to her feet. The man held out his hand to help her but she scowled and ignored it. As she tried to make her way back out of the truck, bracing herself against the side with one hand to stay upright, he blocked her exit.

“Get out of my way,” Anahson growled.

“No,” he whispered, making her frown in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? “Not - Not until you explain to us exactly how and why you bypassed your inhibitor.” There was an electric whir from outside the truck as the armed members of the group raised and primed their weapons, levelling them straight at her.

* * *

Missy templed her fingers under her chin and made a show of considering what the High Council had told her. Most of it, of course, she knew already; it was they who were playing catch up. This new prophecy, though… Her mind flashed back to the scrawled chalk graffiti on the roundels of the Doctor’s TARDIS, to that one repeating message written over and over again when he’d been at his lowest. If her suspicions were right, things were certainly going to get interesting in the universe for a little while. But which way did _she_ want to play this? Did she want to pick a side? Or, perhaps… _Just maybe_ … In her mind’s eye, Missy imagined a chessboard, set up enticingly for a fresh game.

“I’m going to the Cloisters,” she announced, interrupting whichever moron from the High Council was in the middle of droning on. “General, you’ll take me. Chop, chop.”

“The Cloisters? But we’ve told you what the Wraith have prophesied…” a haughty Council member declared, clearing his throat. Missy took in his gold collar and cape coldly.

“Yes, you have. Congratulations on recalling events that happened half an hour ago, you must be very proud.” She rose majestically to her feet and turned to face the General, knowing that she was the only person in the room worth wasting her time on. “Come with me, General. Either that or I’ll make my way down anyway, you’ll have to send guards to stop me and it’ll all get very unpleasant incredibly quickly.” Without waiting for a response, she waltzed over to the lift and stepped inside, tapping her heel impatiently on the floor as she watched the General trying to appease the others. The mental countdown in her head of how long she was willing to hold had almost reached zero when the General finally stepped in alongside her. The doors slid closed and they were alone.

“The TARDIS you arrived in,” the General stated, matter of factly, “is the same one the Doctor and Miss Oswald escaped in. How did you come across it?”

“Dramatically. Your face is very new. How did you come across that?”

“None of your business.” Missy cackled appreciatively, not very many people would be allowed to get away with that but, for the General, she let it slide this once. “You seriously think there are answers in the Cloisters?” the General had turned to face her, her expression so stern that Missy could almost make out her previous regeneration underneath this softer, younger face. The lift slowly sank to the lowest levels of the Capitol. They fell silent as the Gallifreyan numerals flashed across the control panel, ever decreasing. They reached the bottom as the lift came to a halt with a shuddering groan, bathing the small space in red light. The red light normally indicated that it was a bad idea to get out - a warning, universally accepted. For Missy however, it was more of an invitation.

“Think about it, General. When did you last hear of every single Wraith combining to give the same prophecy?”

“...I never have.” The General held out a hand and almost touched Missy’s shoulder as the Time Lady pressed the button to open the doors. “What are you thinking, Mistress?”

“Who, me?” Missy turned to face the General as the doors quietly opened, revealing the dark Cloisters beyond, “I’m not thinking anything. Wouldn’t dare. Where’s it got you, all that thinking, over the millennia? The question shouldn’t be: ‘what am I thinking?’, the question should be: ‘what am I doing?’” She stepped backwards out of the lift, sensing the other woman’s reluctance to venture too far into the Cloisters themselves. With a skip, a jump and twirl, Missy surveyed the old Cloisters and inhaled. Even for the most heinous of Time Ladies, these musty catacombs were the stuff nightmares were made of, whispered tales to terrify children and adults alike.

The General stepped out of the lift, lingering on the outskirts. She peered through the dark and glimpsed Missy beyond a column, in the same spot where Clara and the Doctor had been sat talking softly, what felt like eons ago.

“This is where they came to, yes?” Missy asked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “In fact, never mind. I know it is. I can feel it.” She barely glanced up as the General edged closer. The Gallifreyan symbols on the ground had been wiped of dirt not so long ago. Crouching on the ground, she ran her fingers over the inscriptions. There was a warmth to them she did not expect and she frowned. Closing her eyes, she could sense... something...something wonderful and powerful, it almost made her recoil with its purity. She glanced sharply up at the General.

“What were they doing, when they were here?”

“The Doctor and Miss Oswald?”

“Yes! Who else?! For Rassilon’s sake General, did you get a knock on the head when you regenerated?”

“They were talking. They were just talking. And then Miss Oswald distracted us while the Doctor escaped through the hatch to the workshop and stole the TARDIS.”

“Blah blah blah, we all know that. What were they talking about?”

The General had encroached as close as she could dare, “I’ve no idea. What does it matter?”

Missy pushed herself up to her feet and rose to her full height. With a flourish, she pulled her umbrella from the lining of her coat and rested it on the ground. “It matters, dear General, when you stop for one single, solitary second to consider exactly who, or what, may have been listening in.” With a hard double tap on a very specific stone, Missy stepped back as part of the inscription lit up with a flash.

The General leaned in. Although the symbols on the ground were carved in circular Gallifreyan, the section the Mistress had highlighted was hidden within the text: High Gallifreyan, and an instantly recognisable symbol at that. A name, unseen for longer than either of them cared to remember. Missy gave a small smile at the General’s horrified dawning realisation of what that name meant for them all.

_Oh yes, things are about to get very interesting indeed._

* * *

 The Doctor winced against the burgeoning pain behind his eyes and tried once again to put it out of his mind. He leaned his back against one of the rough walls that surrounded the auction square and exhaled. Their plan was in place. Now it was dusk, all he had to do was wait for the arrival of the wagon carrying the slaves. Ashildr, busy schmoozing one of the guards near the stage where the lots would be paraded like prize-winning cattle, would purchase Anahson from the second round and then they’d casually - cool as you like - meander around the corner to where the TARDIS was parked in a small, disused alley. He just had to hang in there until then.

So why did he feel so ill at ease?

Something angry and cold flared inside him as he suddenly got the urge to climb into the TARDIS, travel back in time and stop Anahson from ever being taken in the first place. He could do it, crossed time-lines and all, it was only a fraction of time that would disintegrate and, from what he’d seen about how the Haidans were choosing to spend this century, he’d be doing them a favour. Part of him snarled, caged and restless. He clenched his hand into a fist - a new trait he couldn’t remember adopting - imagining his knuckles cracked and sore from pounding into a wall. It helped to calm him a little.

“Are you okay?” There she was again, his impossible shadow. Uncharitably, he wondered whether he’d chosen to forget her because she was such a nag.

“Fine.”

Those eyes again, always those eyes. She was looking up at him and angling her head to the side, trying to read him. His pain subsided a little and he frowned.

“Why does that keep happening?” he asked, belatedly realising he’d done so out loud.

“What?” The woman stood next to him and leaned against the wall herself, scanning the square as he had been moments earlier.

“When you’re near, the pain fades.”

“Oh. That.” He could feel her hesitating. “The neural block focuses on me if I’m near you, apparently. Leaves the rest of you alone.”

“Who told you that?”

She pushed away from the wall and turned to face him. “Missy. Why? Is that not right?”

“Well, she’s hardly the most reliable source.”

“Didn’t really have an option. Anyway, that’s why you’ve forgotten my name again. It’s Clara, by the way. Don’t worry, I’m pretty much used to it by now.”

He nodded gruffly and relaxed a little. _Clara_. His mind flitted across his last encounter with Missy but he couldn’t hold onto the details. Something about Davros seemed to stick out, but he could have sworn that he had never encountered Davros in this regeneration. “How much longer is this going to take?” he asked, trying to not sound too antsy. Ashildr was still talking to the guard and the Doctor was becoming increasingly aware of how slowly time passed when you weren’t able to take a short cut. He couldn’t help but think of whatever horrors Anahson was going through at this very moment and here he was, stood as though he was waiting for a bus.

“I don’t know. Ashildr said the guard told her there was some trouble communicating with the trucks on the road. They’d broken down or something, it put them behind schedule. Can’t be too much longer, the crowds are starting to gather; Haida’s best and brightest Slavers from the looks of it.” She was looking at him again with an all too astute awareness in her eyes. “I know you’re struggling...” she began, cutting him off with a glare as he opened his mouth to argue, “Don’t even think about lying to me. You just need to hold on a little while longer, yeah? Be the Doctor.”

He flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The shadows across the square elongated as dusk slowly drifted away. On the peaks of the mountains to the North, a faint blue glow emanated as the pure Gremshall crystals embedded in the rock put on their nightly display. He heard the woman, Clara, give a small intake of breath at its beauty, leaning in slightly as though wanting to share the moment with him. He allowed it for the want of anything else useful to do, appreciating the connection with another person even as he realised that he couldn’t recall the last time he had watched the sun set. Or any time he’d seen it rise. He must have watched a sunrise at some point in his life, surely? Of course he must have, they were just all gone now. Swallowing back against a sudden, unexpected urge to cry, the Doctor gazed over at the mountains and tried to steel his resolve.

“Be the Doctor. I can do that.”

* * *

The trucks sped with purpose towards the city. Anahson sat next to the bearded rebel, Bayn, so that he could keep an eye on her. As far as her experience of Haida was going, there wasn’t a great deal of difference between being the prisoner of the rebels or of the Overseers. At least the shackles had been left at the side of the road, although she was convinced it had not been a popular decision amongst the group. They drove over a pothole and the remaining rebels raised up in their seats before crashing back down onto the rough wooden benches.

“This is a ridiculous plan,” she told him, not willing to give up yet. “You’re going to hurt innocent people.” Once she had managed to convince them she was as surprised at being able to use her abilities with the inhibitor in place as they were, Bayn had immediately seen a tactical advantage and had tried to get her allied with their cause.

“Innocent people?” He scoffed, “At a slave auction? It will be full of owners, guards and Overseers.”

“You think the slave owners do their own buying? If I was a tycoon, I’d have a member of staff to do that for me,” she saw his reaction and knew that he hadn’t considered this point. She pressed further, “Yes, I’d pay someone to do my buying for me. Wouldn’t want to lower myself by attending a cattle market.” Anahson noticed some of the other rebels sat across from them in the wagon were nervously rechecking their weapons, listening to every word.

“Why do you love them so much?” Bayn snapped. “First you’re easing the Overseer’s passing, now you’re trying to stop us from taking our justice the only way we can.”

Anahson sighed, “I’ve told you, I’m not from here. But don’t think for one second that I don’t support your cause. Look at me, I am one of you. It’s just the methods I can’t condone. What good does it do us? Does it take all the hurt away?” She stopped herself from speaking before she said too much. Anahson knew deep down she had to tread carefully, remembering Clara’s words of caution back on the Shadow Proclamation. If she put a foot wrong, she could change the course of history. For all she knew, this wrong-headed attack was a fixed point in time which could determine the entire future of her race. If it didn’t go ahead as a result of her interference, who was to say what would alter? Perhaps her mother wouldn’t flee Haida and spend the next ten years planet hopping to Trap Street, or maybe they wouldn’t survive at all and she wouldn’t exist in the first place to be able to...Well, this was all very confusing. The Doctor would know what to do, he would have made sure they stayed on the right path and probably somehow emancipated everyone at the same time. Anahson felt a burst of sadness as she wondered what had become of her friend.

Bayn was angrily pulling something from the pocket of the green uniform the other rebels had brought for him to wear. He extracted a transparent sheet and thrust it towards her. Anahson noticed a crumpled photograph fall from his pocket and flutter silently to the floor. She bent to pick it up as she examined the sheet he had given her. Printed on it was a list of guests who were due to attend the Slave Auction that night. From the look of some of the titles, it was to be a swanky affair. Anahson read the names: Captain T’sona, High Commander Briggar, Senator Rauws, Lady Me. _Lady Me?_ Anahson’s breath caught in her throat. They were still on Haida! And, unless she had seriously misjudged Ashildr and Clara’s morals, they were going to try to rescue her. She eyed the weapons held by the others warily, as she realised that the two other time travellers had no idea the danger they were in.

“There’s a drinks reception before the auction,” Bayn stated, taking the sheet away from her suddenly numb hands. “So you’ll excuse me if I don’t shed any tears for the people who sip them.” He sounded so sure of himself; almost too sure, as though he still needed to rationalise his actions, and suddenly Anahson couldn’t accept that he truly believed shooting up the auction was going to achieve what he wanted it to.

She shook her head, “There’s another way. There’s always another way.” She handed back the photograph to him, catching a glimpse of the faded portrait of a Janus woman, laughing at something off camera. “I have this friend,” she began, thinking carefully about what she was trying to say. “I was there the day the woman he loved died. He was a mess, absolutely torn apart by it. I’ve never seen anyone look more lost. She knew she was about to die and so did he; not for long before it happened, but for long enough. Even though they were both powerful, strong in their individual ways - even stronger together, come to think of it - there wasn’t anything they could do to change what had happened.” Anahson saw the other rebels, two women and a man, lean in to listen. “There was no way to undo the hurt he was going to suffer and no way to stop her from leaving him. He was so angry: he was like an oncoming storm, railing against those responsible. And he probably could have taken his revenge, carried out all his threats. He’d have destroyed them all easily and he wouldn’t have stopped there. He had the power to carry on until nothing existed but his grief. But do you know why he didn’t?” Bayn wasn’t looking her in the eye. He kissed the photograph and folded it back into his chest pocket.

“Why?” The question came from one of the women sat opposite. Anahson smiled at her.

“She told him not to. She didn’t want what had happened to them to turn him into a monster. She knew that if he took his revenge, he wouldn’t be the man she loved anymore, that everything they were to each other would die too.”

Bayn let out a harsh laugh, “This isn’t a fairy tale. They won’t stop just because we ask them not to. We have no choice but to fight, they’ve taken everything else away from us.”

“Have they?” Anahson entreated, trying to make him understand. “What’s the first thing they do when they imprison us? Or when girls are born? Go on, tell me.”

Bayn frowned, his face half in shadow. “They embed the inhibitors.”

“Exactly. We’re empaths. We empathise better than any race that’s ever existed. What’s the thing they’re most afraid of? It’s the first thing they try to take away from us. It’s the thing that makes us different from them. They can’t take it away from us forever, I’m proof of that... but if we _willingly_ give it up? Well, then they’ve really won haven’t they? And not because they’re the ones holding the whips.”

There were two sharp knocks on the front panel that separated the rear of the wagon from the driver’s cab. Bayn primed his weapon. He schooled his features into a hard scowl and turned to Anahson.

“You can talk, I’ll give you that. But it’s too late now, there is no going back. I suggest you stay out of the way unless you decide to see sense and join us.” He nodded to the others in the van and they primed their weapons, albeit more reluctantly. “We’re almost at the City. Everyone, you know what we have to do: good luck.”

Anahson sat back as she felt the truck slow down. She had tried. Rightly or wrongly, she’d tried to help them and maybe this was the way it was always supposed to happen. She couldn’t do anything more, as much as she wanted to snatch the guns away from them and barricade the doors. They were going to launch a full out assault on the Slave Auction and, she realised with a growing sense of impotence, they were all going to die.

* * *

 


	6. So You Think You Can Tell - Part II

_“Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?”_

Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd

* * *

It was quiet. It was almost time.

Precise feet crept across the dirt, feeling the indentations of straw, testing the textures as they were pressed into the ground by smart leather soles.

The figure came to a halt in the centre of the barn, staring up at the rustic ladder and the small abandoned bed on the raised platform. He watched as specks of dust wafted through the air, searching for a place to settle. Stretching languorously as though awakening from a deep sleep, he cricked his neck and looked up through the open skylight. The sun was setting, familiar stars beginning to glimmer in the darkening sky. Walking casually now, getting used to having some semblance of form even if it wasn’t strictly corporeal, he made his way to where _they_ had been talking. He tilted his head at the patterns drawn in the dirt by a distracted finger.

His own name, in High Gallifreyan.

A sharp eyebrow raised into a questioning arc. Had the Doctor noticed? Had he dared to suspect? Perhaps it was unconscious writing, an unintended result of his presence nearby as they had conversed, his influence bleeding through the walls as he had listened to their pathetic murmurings. He frowned. Or perhaps this was a sign that his plans had been guessed and were in the very process of being thwarted? He allowed the question to linger for a moment before evaporating it with a stiff shrug. He had been promised. He had been reassured. This was his reward. Everything was in place, building and developing and weaving across the tributaries of time; there was no out-maneuvering or last minute foiling to be done. It was impossible.

In two quick strides, he stepped towards to the rickety old door of the barn. With measured patience, he lifted his hand and firmly pressed against the rough wood, sensing a weakness in the psychic construct. A golden glow began to throb between his outstretched fingers, dim at first, steadily growing in intensity. Dropping his arm, he noted with satisfaction that the imprint remained, brightening against the gloom as twilight gradually cast the barn into shadow. The hand print blazed, energy shimmering within its confines before hesitant golden tendrils reached out, finding their tumultuous path in the knots and striations of the wood, expanding, taking on a life of their own.

Dark eyes glittered in the reflected light. The final act was in motion.

* * *

The lights strung across the auction square twinkled invitingly as the crowds gathered, mingling quietly as they drank brightly coloured drinks from tall, frosted glasses. Ashildr pretended to take a sip as she nodded courteously to Captain T’Sona, the rotund Haidan official apparently responsible for the refreshments. The Captain’s chest was laden with medals but she couldn’t help but notice how the golden buttons on his pristine military uniform strained to contain his hulking form. If he had ever seen any action, Ashildr thought, it was probably a long time ago against an enemy who hadn’t stood the remotest chance of a fair fight. She could tell by the softness of the man’s skin, the sheen and polish of his elegant manicure and the lack of depth in his piggy eyes. The magnificent golden dagger at his side was purely ceremonial. Ashildr had lived long enough now to spot his sort a mile off: he would have been in an elaborate tent miles from the front-lines, gambling and whoring while faceless teenagers died for a cause that would never be worth the cost. It brought back painful shadows of memory Ashildr couldn’t quite place.

Clara bristled over her shoulder and Ashildr could feel her friend’s impatience radiating. She tried to catch her gaze and offer a reassuring glance but Clara’s attention was focused where the Doctor stood, slightly separate from both them and the crowd, clutching his own glass so tightly Ashildr worried the stem was about to snap under the pressure. _Better the glass than him_ , she admitted silently to herself as she took in his furiously darkened features.

A Janus slave slid past them, expertly balancing a tray of canopés. From the flash of blue emanating within the silver disk on the Janus’ temple, Ashildr could tell that the inhibitor was being controlled by someone within the square. The woman’s rear face was animated and looking around in what appeared to be a security measure; someone was monitoring the pasts of the guests to ensure...what? Perhaps that there was no duplicity? The current Haidan monopoly on the Janus’ abilities had made the planet a lot of enemies in the local system. When tycoons were able to use their slaves to see the future and use their rivals’ pasts against them, there were bound to be a few ruffled feathers and at least a couple of wars. The Janus lingered over Clara and Ashildr, evidently confused. Ashildr offered up a perfunctory prayer to whatever deity might be interested in their plight, that whoever was monitoring the Janus was not curious enough to investigate the two women with messy pasts. The sooner they were out of here, the better. Resisting the urge to check a watch she hadn’t worn for longer than most civilisations lasted, Ashildr shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“I hate this,” Clara’s comment came through gritted teeth that were fixed into what would have seemed to any outsiders a professional smile. To Ashildr, it looked forced and about ready to crack. The Doctor was currently running an exasperated hand through his hair and the two women stood side by side to observe him for a moment.

“How’s he doing?” Ashildr felt Clara’s shrug against her shoulder.

“About as well as can be expected -”

A rumbling noise interrupted her as two trucks rounded the corner and slowly made their way along the main road leading to the square, aiming for the area close to the auction stage where the slaves were to be unloaded. Ashildr heaved a sigh of relief as the Doctor moved back over towards them and the crowds muttered their approval. Finally, they could get this charade over with, purchase Anahson and get her safely back to the TARDIS. She just hoped the girl was unharmed and would understand their need for subterfuge.

The trucks inexplicably picked up speed as they neared the square and abruptly the three time travellers turned towards the noise, something innate kicking in, a sense of trouble honed from too many adventures gone wrong. The wagons were moving far too quickly, veering towards the square with calculated purpose. They roared at the security barrier blocking the entrance. With an explosion of wooden shards and a screech of twisted metal, the first truck burst through the flimsy barrier like it wasn’t even there and drove straight into the crowd, two guards flying across the windshield and through the air before smashing into the cobble stone floor with sickening thuds.

The Doctor prised himself away from Clara’s stunned grasp and ran forward, leaping over a table as it toppled over to its side, overturned by people trying to dive out of the way. Panic closed in from all sides. Ashildr and Clara instinctively grabbed each other’s hands and raced after the Doctor as he held his sonic screwdriver aloft. Clara frantically reached for her sonic shades and quickly slid them on her face, focusing all her energy to bring the out of control vehicle to a juddering, smoking halt. Ashildr briefly lost her grip on Clara as she roughly pulled a winded old woman, who had been knocked to the ground by the melée, to her feet.

“We need to clear a path out of here!” she shouted. “People are going to get crushed!” A nearby guard unfurled his Gremshall whip and activated it, whirling it above his head to make the electric charge crackle and pop. Whether he was trying to get the crowd’s attention or to take out some of the competition for space, it was hard to tell. A heavy-set man with a face covered in intricate tattoos barged into Clara and almost sent her crashing to the ground. With a bruising grip on her elbow, the Doctor dragged her back to his side.

“Stay on your feet,” he advised making sure she was steady before letting her go. He swung round to point his sonic at the guard’s whip. The blue coil suddenly melted, coating the guard from head to toe with glowing plasma as the man let out a piercing scream and collapsed to the ground in a heap. “He’ll be fine,” the Doctor yelled at Ashildr’s horrified glance, “well, after a week or so.”

“Doctor, what setting?” Clara asked, bracing herself against Ashildr’s shoulder as she adjusted the sonic sunglasses, spotting another guard trying to claw his way through the terrified droves of panicking people.

“Two eight three,” the Doctor supplied, with a grim grin, “good for speeding up baking and, apparently, melting refined Gremshall. Amazing what you remember under pressure.”

Together, the three of them fought their way through the crush towards the trucks. They advanced until they came to the relative cover the main drinks table. As one, they flipped it on its side, sending the remaining delicate glasses smashing to the ground with a melodious tinkle. Crouching down, Ashildr caught her breath and tried to pull her hair back from where it had come loose and been swept across her face.

“Looks like the softly softly approach is off the table, so to speak” the Doctor said bouncing on his haunches and looking slightly more excited by this development than he had any right to be. Peering carefully around their cover, she watched as a group of armed Janus slaves poured from the back of the two trucks and began firing what looked like adapted Gremshall weapons indiscriminately into the crowd.

“How about we do this my way?” The Doctor launched himself away from them and it was all Ashildr could do to clutch at Clara’s shoulder to stop her from following. Helpless, she watched the velvety blur of grey and black sprinting across the square away from them, the occasional flare of blue from his sonic screwdriver flashing under the fairy lights as they popped and sparked overhead.

* * *

“There’s still time,” Anahson pleaded, stepping towards the rebel leader. She was still gripping onto the side of the van for dear life, recovering from the ricochet of the crash. “You can find another path, Bayn.” Her ears were ringing and something in her neck had twisted painfully.

Screams and cries filtered through the sides of the truck from the square as Bayn paused, breaking eye contact and looking down at the floor. He looked as though he was about to speak when another rebel called his name, urging him to join the others. For a moment, Anahson - hoping against all hope - thought she had convinced him but her heart sank as he shook his head, turned his back on her and vaulted out of the doors. She thought she heard a muttered ‘sorry’ before he disappeared from view.

She waited for a second, unsure of what to do. _Ashildr is out there somewhere_. Chances were, that meant the TARDIS would be close by too and they could all get out of here together, leave them all to it and allow Haida’s history to play out as it always had. Anahson had seen enough, sending up a whispered prayer of apology to her mother for every time she had taken what Anah had been through on Haida for granted as a moody teenager. She just hoped her friends wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire. Crouching, she carefully climbed out of the truck, making sure her feet were stable on the uneven cobbles before bending over double and creeping along the side of the vehicle, using it as a shield. The makeshift Gremshall weapons were firing to either side of her and she flinched as the crackle of the electric charge hitting flesh rang out. A terrible smell of scorched flesh began to seep into the air.

The square was full of people running in all directions. She spotted one woman get knocked to the ground; she disappeared amidst the crowd and Anahson couldn’t tell whether she ever made it back to her feet. Furiously, she brushed tears away from her eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to stop her abilities from kicking in, knowing she would be instantly overwhelmed by this much fear and hatred. A hand grasped firmly onto her shoulder and Anahson spun around, her hands raised into fists, ready to fight.

“Didn’t think I’d be able to sneak up on you so easily. After all, you do have eyes in the back of your head.” Sharp blue eyes scanned her rapidly, taking in the split lip. They lingered on her inhibitor and, self-conscious, she brushed against it with her fingers. “We can remove that on the TARDIS,” the Doctor scowled with thinly contained fury, “I promise.”

With a grin and a little cry of joy, Anahson flung her arms around the Doctor’s neck and held on tight. They didn’t normally hug by mutual consent but _by the gods_ it was good to see him.

“Yes, yes,” he groused, pulling away and surveying the area manically. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

“What about Ashildr and Clara?”

The Doctor paused, he’d grabbed her elbow and had been about to lead her away from the square. Anahson frowned at the blank expression on his face. “Oh. Yes, you’re right. Let’s do that. Where are they?”

“Aren’t they with you?”

“Well, evidently not!” The Doctor made a show of looking around the immediate vicinity, his arms outstretched.

“Didn’t you have a plan in case you got separ...you can’t remember it, can you?”

“Considering how things have been going recently, it’s a miracle I’m functioning at all so let’s be grateful for small mercies.” The Doctor winced as he looked around them, squinting into the crowd as he calculated how they could rendezvous with the others and make their escape.

“Is there any way to stop this, Doctor?” Anahson asked, quietly. He turned to face her. “I mean,” she clarified, “is this a fixed point in time? Is this a key moment of the revolt or can we -” she stuttered to a halt, “I didn’t know what to do for the best.”

“For the best? There is no best, Anahson.” He towered over her, standing protectively close. “Look what they’ve done to you, to your people. The Haidans’ entire infrastructure is built on the blood and sweat of the Janus. The only reason this tiny little rock has any significance at all is because the Power Brokers use your abilities to manipulate and extort the other planets in the local system. They use you to wage wars and close deals. I wouldn’t waste your pity on them, not for one second.”

Anahson shook her head at him. “That’s not you, Doctor. That’s not what you do. Please, tell me you don’t think this is the answer.” She gestured to the square, aware how futile the action was to try to articulate what was happening around them.

“It’s not the answer but it’s _an_ answer, and sometimes that’s the best anyone can hope for. Of course, it won’t get them what they want and it’ll probably get all the rebels killed but at least it’s better than being controlled by…” He abruptly stopped speaking. Anahson felt a shiver slowly work its way down her spine at the look on his face. For a second, he staggered and had to lean heavily against the side of the truck, his hand lifting to his temple as he barely contained a grunt of pain.

“What? What is it?” Anahson hovered close to him, worried by the Doctor’s sudden pallor. He seemed to recover himself a little and waved her away with a flap of his hand.

“I’m running out of time, we’ve got to get a move on,” he grabbed her hand and began to pull her along behind him, ducking around the truck and picking up speed as he propelled them between a couple of ornate wrought iron lamp-posts, making a beeline for the auction stage. “Your new friends haven’t thought this through,” he said over his shoulder, “their little insurrection is going to harm every single Janus female on this planet...”

Anahson side-stepped an injured man writhing on the floor as she felt something solid and painful rise uncomfortably in her throat. Every Janus woman on the planet…in her mind’s eye she pictured her mother, somewhere on Haida: pregnant, afraid and very much alone.

* * *

The feedback squealed painfully loudly even over the din of the square. A sudden hush fell, allowing only for the quiet moaning of the injured, the muffled sobs of the frightened. Clara crawled away from a man whose broken ankle she had been tending, leaving his brother to apply the makeshift splint, and joined up with Ashildr. Together, they turned their attention towards the stage. Taking everyone’s distraction as an opportunity to glance around the confines of their enclosure, Clara could see the armed rebels stood to something resembling attention at periodic stations on the perimeter. Instinctively, she knew they would be positioned to cover every inch of the square, that the Janus probably knew the geography of this place better than those who had built it centuries before. She wondered when she had become so adept at deciphering tactics and decided she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know.

A Janus rebel - she supposed that’s what they were now, or freedom fighters? - was stood in the centre of the stage, his weapon pressed to the temple of a quivering, kneeling Captain T’Sona. The Rebel leaned in to address the silver microphone, adjusting his position when his voice reverberated too loudly.

“Haidan purchasers, owners and slavers: listen.” He paused, waiting as a small breeze rippled across the motionless audience. “This is the sound of history. The sound of history asking you a question and awaiting your response.” Clara shared a look with Ashildr and, by unspoken agreement, they began to slowly make their way in his direction, moving in careful increments. If the Doctor was going to be anywhere, he’d be in the midst of the action.

Sure enough, she found her eyes drawn to the near side of the plaza, where she spotted his lean form creeping towards the wings of the platform, bent low in an attempt at stealth. At some point, she was going to have a quiet conversation with herself about her Doctor-related sixth sense in order to figure out exactly how to move on from it, that emotional lurch whenever she glimpsed him. If they were soon to part ways again, she had to get it under control. She tugged gently at the arm of Ashildr's leather jacket and nodded over to where the Doctor and Anahson - thank goodness - were briefly illuminated by a spotlight, making their way towards the Rebel as he continued to deliver his oratory - taking on the role of judge, jury and executioner.

"This man, Captain Dragohan T'Sona, has presided over the sale of hundreds and thousands of my people. He is a man without honour, without empathy..." the diatribe stuttered briefly on this word and Clara saw the man's grip on his weapon loosen slightly.

"Come on," she whispered to Ashildr. Steadily, they made their way as Clara kept her eyes firmly fixed on the Doctor and Anahson, relieved their little band was about to be reunited. If they all survived what appeared to be turning into a hostage situation, it would be the best bit of luck they'd had since leaving Aechon for the Shadow Proclamation.

By their current standards, it was practically a win.

* * *

The Doctor heard someone approaching where they were standing, half hidden in shadow. He turned around with his screwdriver held out as if it were a weapon before he saw who it was, his brow relaxing a little. Ashildr and the other one, thank goodness. With a finger to his lips, he indicated that they should make their way onto the stage, stepping over the unconscious guards who had clearly been taken down during the initial fighting. He led the way, noticing how the other women clasped Anahson on the arm, smiling at her warmly in greeting. At least they were there to get Anahson to the safety of the TARDIS if he couldn’t quite remain in control for as long as he needed. He had a protocol in place on the TARDIS that would get them all home, no matter what.

Another painful shudder rippled through him but he didn’t betray the sensation on his face, schooling his features into a mask of indifference. _Not now, not yet_ , he thought, furious at his body’s complete inability to follow simple commands.

From the elevated viewpoint of the stage, the situation unfolding in front of them seemed even more surreal. Looking out across the square, the frightened faces of the crowd barely registered. Unsure of what the plan was exactly - and if there even was one - Clara and Ashildr held back as he and Anahson made their way over to where the Rebel leader and T’Sona were stood.

“As justice is blind to the plight of the Janus, it is with a heavy heart that we must take our own,” Bayn was reaching the end of his speech, powering up his Gremshall weapon. The Doctor selected setting 283 on his sonic and, without announcing his presence, activated it. Nothing. A little blip sounded to register that the command had been sent but the blue coil of the gun remained frustratingly solid. Raising the device to his ear, he shook it, making sure nothing was loose inside like that time he’d dropped it into the canyon on...whichever planet it had been. No, everything seemed to be in working order. Knowing he was doing the Time Lord equivalent of a double take, he looked at the Rebel’s weapon again, back to the sonic and then back to the weapon. There was something different about it... _Of course!_

“ _Unrefined_ Gremshall,” he muttered, “well, never let it be said that being chained in the mines held back the spirit of invention.”

Anahson took advantage of the pause and took a brave step forward.

“Bayn. Stop. You haven’t thought this through.”  Bayn swung around at the sound of her voice, dragging T’Sona with him. The Captain made a strangled plea for help as the Doctor moved to stand by Anahson’s side.

“You,” Bayn looked surprised. “I told you you were free to go if you didn’t want to fight. This is no concern of yours. Or yours, old man.” He turned back to T’Sona but hesitated for a moment. A moment was all the Doctor needed. A lot of things could change in a moment.

“If you kill this man,” he said, gravely, “they will activate the inhibitors on every single Janus woman and girl on Haida. You know they will.” Bayn froze and the Doctor moved carefully and compassionately towards him, as though not wanting to startle the other man.

From the sidelines, Clara watched, remembering a moment not so long ago when the Doctor had talked down a Zygon with so much fury and passion, she hadn’t been able to sleep for days afterwards without his raw words repeating in her head whenever she closed her eyes. She knew he couldn’t draw on that rage and despair now, the Time War would be just as hazy as all his other memories, but she found comfort in the fact that he was still the same man at his very core.

“I understand your anger,” the Doctor continued, “I know you’re desperate. I don’t blame you. But - and I mean this in all sincerity since you’re the one with the big, scary gun that I unfortunately can’t melt into a giant puddle at this particular juncture - your forward planning leaves a lot to be desired.” He gestured around the square, settling into his role and drawing power from being on stage. He could project with the best of them. “All you’ve got is a handful of tired miners and slaves who can be controlled at your enemy’s whim. There are reinforcements on the way and you don’t stand a chance of escape.”

Anahson saw a hint of something unusual flicker briefly over Bayn’s face. It almost looked like relief. Or certainty. Or confident resignation. “You know you can’t escape,” she realised suddenly, “you never intended to.”

In the distance, quietly at first and then building in volume, an alarm began to ring out. It pealed with more urgency as the noise increased. A small smile played on the corners of Bayn’s mouth as he visibly relaxed and pushed T’Sona away from him, kicking the man in the back so he crumpled face down onto the stage.

The Doctor circled the rebel, curious. “So, not an idiot.”

Clara noticed the rebels who had stormed the vicinity were rapidly departing, climbing walls, splitting in opposite directions. Running for their lives. One by one, they vanished into the night. From the East, trucks of soldiers screeched to a halt just outside the devastation of the security barriers and, hearing an unexpected roar of engines, she looked up to see a transport ship moving to hover overhead, a huge searchlight cutting brightly through the night sky. All of a sudden, the lights on the stage were cut and they were pitched into darkness. The timing, Clara noted, was impeccable. She quickly caught up with the Doctor’s thinking.

“It was a diversion,” she said, glancing over at Ashildr. “They needed all the security reinforcements to be called to the square.”

“But what for?” The Doctor demanded, “Where is that alarm coming from?”

Clara noticed the square was starting to clear as the guards helped the citizens to escape. A small squadron of armoured men and women were beginning to make their way towards the stage, sights levelled at them all but clearly holding back until they received the word to end the insurrection. It would only be a matter of time before they were all surrounded.

“Doctor, we need to get out of here,” Ashildr warned, having apparently noticed the same thing.

Bayn nodded down to where T’Sona was struggling to sit up, “He knows. Why don’t you tell them, Captain?” He kicked the man sharply and swung the Gremshall gun in the official’s direction once more. “Tell them,” he snarled.

Captain T’Sona held his hands aloft and fell backwards. “It was the facility, I assume,” he wheezed. “The facility in the Isilano District. How did you manage to infiltrate it? It doesn’t matter - you’ll all hang for this soon enough.”

“And what is this facility?” If T’Sona had known better, he would have recognised the dangerous edge to the Doctor’s voice. The Captain gritted his teeth, refusing to answer as he sensed the tables turning in his favour. The guards were closing in.

“It’s where they keep the ‘Breeders,’” Bayn spat, hitting T’Sona in the face with a thin glob of spittle. “And make sure they come to term. Well, not anymore T’Sona. We won’t have another generation born to serve you.” His anger distracted him for a moment and his gun drifted away from T’Sona.

That was all the window of opportunity the Captain needed.

With an athleticism that shocked them all, T’Sona suddenly surged forward screaming a war-like cry, lunging himself at Bayn, a glint of something golden flashing through the air. The Doctor had to dive out of the way as Bayn’s weapon misfired, glancing painfully off his shoulder and sending blue electricity arcing down his left hand side. The brawling men rolled on the ground as Anahson, Ashildr and Clara rushed forward. Clara ran to the Doctor’s side, meaning to stabilise him as he groaned, waiting for the energy waves to disperse. He held a hand out to keep her at bay, worried the electric charge would jump into her as well.

Ashildr and Anahson managed to haul Bayn away from the avenging slaver, whose chest heaved as he sweated with the effort of his attack. The Rebel blankly reached down without thinking and pulled the Captain’s ceremonial dagger out of his stomach, releasing a torrent of dark red blood across his green shirt. Too much blood for anyone to realistically survive the injury, and they all knew it. He was dazed, but the rush of the spacecraft’s thrusters as it landed in the cleared square, more reinforcements pouring out of its cargo hold, seemed to bring him back to himself for a moment. He struggled against Ashildr and Anahson, keen to take T’Sona down with him.

“Don’t!” Anahson cried, “We have to get out of here. It’s going to be okay, the diversion worked,” she recalled the picture that had fallen out of Bayn’s pocket in the truck, “she’ll be safe, Bayn.” Her words seemed to reach through his red mist and Bayn reluctantly pulled away.

“This way,” he spluttered, slapping Anahson’s questing hands out of the way as he clamped his own fist over his wound, trying to stem the flow. “No sense in you all dying as well.” He staggered to the rear of the stage and disappeared behind a thin crack in the backdrop.

“Ashildr, give me a hand!” Clara cried, finally supporting the disoriented Doctor. Anahson rushed ahead, trying to keep Bayn in sight as he led the way. Ashildr grabbed the Doctor’s other arm used her momentum to push the three of them through the narrow opening. As the guards finally stormed onto the stage, cracking their whips and shouting commands, she ardently hoped they weren’t running head first into a dead end.

* * *

The passageway was cramped, it felt as though the high walls were collapsing in on them as Anahson scraped her hands on the rough stone, trying to feel her way in the dark. Cables supplying power to the stage tripped them underfoot and she heard Bayn forcefully kick a backstage chair out of the way as he stumbled through. Her breath was coming heavily through her nose and she felt the urge to be sick rolling and rising up inside her stomach. She felt something wet and sticky on her cheek and knew she must have accidentally wiped her bloodied hand on her face.

Contorting her aching neck, she looked behind her to where Clara and Ashildr were cajoling the Doctor who seemed to be regaining some of the functions down his left side. He accidentally jostled Clara into the wall, putting a tight arm around her waist and pulling her back to him as she swore loudly, her shoulder soundly smacking into the wall.

“Language,” he admonished between gulps of air.

At least whatever hardships they were suffering now would also befall any would be chasers; they couldn’t be overwhelmed if the guards had to pass down in single file too. Bayn took a sharp left, veering out of the passage and into a second, wider alley. It seemed to back onto two rows of houses, with small metal doors marking the entrances to overgrown backyards. With little warning, Bayn pushed through one of the doors a couple of houses down, leading them through rows of washing lines. He paused briefly to spit up something dark and menacing onto the cobblestones.

“Bayn,” he brushed off her concern with a shake of his head.

“Not much further. There’s somewhere we can rest. Over here,” he slipped down a path next to the house and made another turn, leading them through the warren of streets. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure the others were following, Anahson jogged after him.

Clara tensed up as the Doctor pulled away from her, readying herself to catch him if she needed.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, “thank you.” She felt something brush against her hand and looked down to see that it was his palm, sliding itself to fit against hers. Once they were connected she squeezed his hand tightly and, although she may have imagined it, felt a slight pressure in response. For some reason, this worried her more than their frantic pace and the growing noise from their pursuers; the Doctor was scared about something, she could tell. Reaching behind her, she flung her spare hand out and Ashildr grabbed it, the three of them clumsily dragging each other across the street they had emerged into.

Bayn skidded to a halt at another crowded corner and flung open a door, ushering them all through whilst he sagged against it, his energy spent. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped a streak of telltale blood from the door handle as best he could and then, checking in all directions, quietly pulled the door closed behind them. He fell into the small courtyard, dropping to his knees with a heartfelt grunt. Clara ran a hand through her hair as she watched Anahson help Bayn to lean back against one of the walls. Looking up, she saw the courtyard was overlooked by four tall buildings. They couldn’t stay there long without being spotted.

An uneasy quiet fell as they listened carefully, catching their breath. The sound of running heavy footsteps and shouted orders filtered through the door and over the walls of their hideout but seemed to encroach no further

Ashildr rested her hands on her knees, getting her breath back as she caught Clara’s eye. With a small shake of her head, she answered the unasked question. Clara walked over to where the Doctor was stood, barely moving.

“Are you okay?”

He seemed startled by her presence, so intently was he watching Anahson tend to Bayn. “I’ll be fine. He won’t,” he pointed towards Bayn, “help her with him.” The Doctor looked down at her and she noticed his eyes were glazed over, they’d lost their usual brightness. His skin was clammy, she could see sweat beading on his forehead. On instinct, she raised her hand to check his temperature but he flinched away, confused by her familiarity. Clara nodded slowly and took a step back. She had to focus on getting them back to the TARDIS. Judging from the route they’d taken, they couldn’t be more than a few streets away...

“Clara -” it was Ashildr, crowding in next to her and speaking in a low whisper, “I think we need to hold off for a few minutes here…” She angled her head towards Anahson and Bayn.

“That bad?”

The Viking nodded, “I think she wants to help him pass.”

“She can do that?” Clara raised a surprised eyebrow. There was a lot about the Janus’ abilities that she had yet to discover. Ashildr gave a lopsided shrug and they both went over to where Anahson was kneeling, holding Bayn’s hand. Ashildr leaned forward and laid a supportive hand on Anahson’s shoulder. The young girl didn’t turn around, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

Bayn was trying to speak, although his words rasped and his voice was raw. “I need you to make sure -” he fished through his pockets, pulled out the folded photograph she had only glimpsed back in the truck, a lifetime ago. He folded the picture into her hands and she held onto it reverently. “Make sure they - made it out. My girls.”

“We will,” Anahson said, carefully passing the picture over to Ashildr as she prepared herself at Bayn’s side. “Do you think...Is it time?” It was probably the strangest question she had ever had to ask anyone - ‘was he about to die, did he think?’ - but she shook away her feelings of discomfort. Bayn’s eyes slipped away from her face and focused on something unseeable in the middle distance. She’d seen that look before, on her mother towards the end. She knew what it meant.

As Anahson readied herself and took a deep breath, reaching out with her mind, Ashildr glanced down at the photograph Bayn had clung to so desperately. It took a moment for the face to register - it had been billions of years after all - but meeting up with Anahson had brought memories of Trap Street back to the surface. Ashildr frowned in recognition and then her eyes widened in amazement: _Anah_. The woman in the picture was Anah. Which meant… She felt a slight shift in energy as Anahson connected with Bayn, searching his past for the comfort he’d need to ease his passing. _Oh my goodness_ , Ashildr thought with a shudder of sorrow.

 _He’s her father_.

* * *

Something was wrong. That was the first thing Anahson noticed as she reached out to Bayn, trying to find a moment in his past she could project for him. Something to calm his passing. There was an intense pain lancing through her temples, ribboning down her spine. She wanted to pull away but she was frozen, unable to move or to stop the assailing images from spinning through her mind. Distantly, she heard Ashildr and Clara hushedly calling her name but she couldn’t turn to tell them what was happening. Her vision tunnelled as she was bombarded with images, flashing by too fast for her to take in. Anahson felt herself tilting as though she was experiencing everything from a distance, witnessing herself crashing to the ground. She saw herself shaking as disembodied hands tried to protect her head from the concrete as she thrashed wildly.

And then, one image pushed itself to the front of her perception. Clearer than reality, a fraction of time. Bayn sat on the floor of a makeshift shelter, bone-weary and depressed, a dull ache radiating from his knee and shoulder. The evening after a long day in the mines and the only thing that had kept him from breaking was her. And here she was. Emerging from the depths of the dark shack, bringing him a cup of nettle tea, folding her legs underneath herself and resting against him, helping him to lift the slightly too hot beaker to his lips so that he could take a sip.

He hated the tea, but he never had the heart to tell her.

Instead, as he sipped it, he stared at her face. He mapped her features and allowed the comfort of her presence to wash over him. She always thought it was the bitter drink that calmed him and relaxed his knotted muscles. Before long, he was going to work up the courage to tell her the truth.

 _Anah_.

Anahson felt an icy sensation grip at her heart as the realisation spread through her, filling her with a kind of panic she had never experienced before. As her vision moved on from that single recognition of love, it rapidly filled in the rest of the stories and, in doing so, began to forcefully intertwine with her own timestream. Without even being conscious of making the decision, she reached out to the flaring red of the present and absorbed his pain. All of it. The stabbing shock in her lower abdomen jolted her back into herself and she found herself lying on the ground, a worried Ashildr and Clara crouched over her, calling her name.

“Anahson, thank god,” it was Clara but her voice was muffled by a noise in the distance. A light passed over the courtyard from above but Anahson couldn’t waste time trying to determine its source. She launched herself towards Bayn, _towards her father_ , feeling tears streaming down both of her faces. Another first; she’d never known a sensation like it. His eyes were barely open but his face was free of pain, only slightly contorted in a confused frown. Barely breathing, he managed to turn his head towards her. His mouth opened but no words came out. Was that wonder in his eyes? Taking the pain radiating across her stomach as the impetus she needed to stay cognizant, she searched her own memories and picked one, a good one, to project towards him in his final seconds: her and her mother, sat on a quiet Sunday on Trap Street.

The afternoon sun was filtering through into their living room as they sat on the floor, half-heartedly playing a board game but spending most of their time chatting instead, a box of chocolates passed between them until it was frustratingly filled with empty wrappers. It was a normal moment, something Anahson had taken for granted. It was nothing fancy or magnificent. It wasn’t a moment of high drama, great joy or exciting travel across the universe. But, she realised, it was exactly what she needed him to know her life had eventually been; a quiet Sunday, sat on the floor, warmed by the knowledge that she was loved, that she was free.

* * *

Clara and Ashildr tried to not crowd Anahson as she pulled away from Bayn. He slumped over, and his laboured breathing stopped. At first, Anahson was unresponsive. The light that swept over their hiding place in the courtyard barely registered as tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. Ashildr shared a wordless glance with a distraught Clara and wrapped her arm around the young Janus.

“Anahson, I’m sorry…”

Clara turned away, biting her lip against the pain of the younger woman’s loss, remembering her mother’s death from all those years ago. A wound that would never heal but, with time, could become a positive thing; an understanding that life was precious and - ironically, come to think of it now - short. Worth fighting for. Worth enjoying to its fullest possible extent. Speaking of… She realised the nagging concern in the corner of her mind was due to the Doctor’s seeming absence during Bayn’s death. He hadn’t wandered over or offered to help, nor had he lent any support to his companion. That wasn’t like him, despite all of his social awkwardness.

The niggling worry blossomed into full on panic as she saw him across the courtyard, unmoving, staring at the back of his hand. He barely seemed to be aware of their surroundings or of the searchlight that now hovered distractingly overhead, drawing ever closer to discovering them.

“Doctor?” Tentatively, she took a step towards him. She glanced over her shoulder to see Ashildr guiding a shaky Anahson to her feet. “Can you hear me? We need to go. We need to get back to the TARDIS before -” She stopped cold as she saw what was fascinating him so about the skin stretched across the back of his hand: it was shimmering gold.

“No,” she said, loud enough to finally draw his attention. “Tell me this isn’t happening.” He frowned at her like she was a stranger and as his eyes met hers, she distinctly felt something inside her snap in two. “No. This is not happening. I won’t let it.”

In burst of energy she hadn’t seen him possess fully since their encounter with the Judoon, the Doctor suddenly leaped to his feet. “Won’t let what happen? What’s going on? Who are you and where are we? Never mind, I’ll answer that one myself. Haida! You’re a Janus,” he skipped over to the startled Anahson and stared rudely at her faces as he circled her, “nice to meet you, don’t bother looking at my timeline it will give you a migraine. I had a migraine for a while there. Me! A Time Lord. But it’s gone now and everything’s lovely. Who do we have here? You’re a...humanish,” he waggled a dramatic finger in the air near Ashildr, his voice getting louder as he became more animated. “And you!” He pointed at Clara, “You’re a bit impossible, aren’t you? No heartbeat but massive eyes. Are you overcompensating?”

The noise he was making was starting to echo off the bricks. Clara moved forwards, her hands outstretched as though she was trying to coerce a skittish animal.

“Doctor, we’re your friends. You need to listen to me and you need to quieten down…”

“Ooh, yes, shush,” he said, holding his finger to his lips. “What’s this above us? A searchlight? Are we hiding? Everybody hide. Pretend you’re a Weeping Angel and stand still. Ach, I can’t stand still this is too exciting! Who’s this dead bloke and why is he dead? He’s sprung a leak. Sorry, that was rude of me. I used to have these cards that would help with -” The Doctor paused and shuddered as something passed through him. Ashildr pulled Anahson to the side out of the way just in case he was about to go supernova.

“You’re not well,” Clara tried again, lowering her voice so he had to strain to listen. “We need to get to the TARDIS before you -”

“Regenerate! I’m going to regenerate!” He smacked himself in the head with the palm of his hand as though he was an idiot for not realising sooner. “Time for a different shade of kidney, at last. But why can’t I remember?” He dropped to one knee as though in pain. “I can’t...I was. How long was I this me? There’s something missing, something important. I need -”

Clara rushed to the Doctor’s side and pulled his arm over her shoulder so she could support his weight again. Could this all be from the Gremshall hit he’d taken? But he’d seemed fine, she thought, and it would take a lot more than an indirect hit from such a primitive weapon to cause him to have to regenerate, surely? With a serious expression, she turned to the other two women.

“We have to get to the TARDIS,” she commanded, “he’s going to bring all the guards down on us at this rate. And if he regenerates...”

The Doctor started to mumble incoherently as Ashildr encouraged Anahson to step away from Bayn’s body. The younger girl seemed torn, unwilling to leave him alone to be discovered by his enemies but they had no other choice. Clara was already struggling to pull the metal door open as Ashildr dashed to help her with the Doctor.

Disoriented and still reeling, Anahson found herself following them into the street. She didn’t allow herself to look back at the body lying slumped by the wall.

* * *

The TARDIS doors flung themselves open as they staggered far too slowly towards it, off balance as Ashildr and Clara held the barely conscious Doctor up between them. Ashildr panted with the effort of carrying him, his head dropping to his chest as he lost and regained consciousness, eyes rolling. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the Haidan guards kicking in doors and searching houses but Bayn had seemingly known the district better than their pursuers and they were grateful for the small change in their fortunes.

Clara was having a hard time seeing, unwelcome tears blurring her vision as she could feel the Doctor trying to walk with them but failing as he sagged back, a dead weight. She furiously shook the wetness away as she shouldered him sharply towards the waiting police box. The TARDIS itself seemed to be urging them on, her lights inside the console room strobing with anxiety. Clara heaved a mental sigh of relief as the ground underneath their feet changed from rough concrete to smooth polished floor. Ashildr bundled the Doctor towards Clara and dashed back outside to grab the traumatised Anahson by the hand.

“Inside, now!” she shouted, trying to snap the young Janus out of her grief-stricken haze. “We don’t have time!” The harsh words seemed to do the trick and Anahson practically fell through the doors with her, Ashildr’s arm around her shoulders propelling them inside. Promptly, the TARDIS slammed the doors. Ashildr ran over to the console and, taking in Clara knelt over the Doctor’s prone form as she lowered him to the floor, pulled the lever that allowed them to dematerialise and enter the time vortex. Still out of breath, she leaned over and rested her forehead against the cool console, trying to gather herself. She could do this, she could keep them all together.

Anahson had crumpled to the floor, her back still against the TARDIS doors, legs splayed in front of her at an awkward angle as she ran a blood-covered hand over her face. _Her father’s blood._ His absence in her life was all her fault. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t distracted him when he was about to kill T’Sona... Had she really valued the slaver’s life over his? All she could offer him was some paltry comfort too little, too late. Had he known how grateful she was and how she was going to try to make him proud from now on? _Oh gods, what if he didn’t know?_

Ashildr was crouching in front of her now, a palm gently stroking her face as the other woman tried to guide her out of her breakdown. She heard her name repeated over and over, that it would be okay, that there were some things that could never be changed, some things that would always hurt. Anahson knew her eyes were wild and unfocused, could still feel her abilities reeling from everything she had experienced on that damned planet. Her heart rate slowly came back under some semblance of control and she found she had to suck in air less forcefully. Taking solace in Ashildr’s maternal embrace, she felt herself return to the room. The sounds of the TARDIS were a comfort now, the vortex felt like safety.

Clara removed her jacket and balled it up carefully before slipping it under the Doctor’s head in an attempt to make him as comfortable as possible; there was no way they’d be able to carry him all the way to his room now, his jaw was slack and his eyes closed. She held his hand between her own and nuzzled it against her cheek as she closed her eyes and tried to will him back to wakefulness. She couldn’t lose him again. Not now, not like this.

She turned to glance over to where Ashildr and Anahson were rising to their feet. Anahson looked pale and exhausted, the metal of the inhibitor reflecting the flashing TARDIS lights. Clara doubted that the younger woman would be in any state to help the Doctor but they had to try. She couldn’t just sit here and watch him in this state, ashen and unresponsive.

_Slipping away._

Carefully, she placed his hand back down onto his chest, kneeling closer and putting her face next to his as she observed him. She tangled her fingers in the hair curled at his temples as she leaned over him, brushing his surprisingly soft skin delicately. Her eyes roamed his face looking for any sign that he could feel her presence.

There was nothing. Not a glimmer, not a twitch of muscle coming back to life. She was struck by how different this seemed to his last regeneration. As terrifying as the sudden change had been, this slow process was a thousand times worse. But, in the difference, she found a small sliver of hope: maybe this wasn’t what it seemed to be. She remembered all too clearly the Doctor’s words inside the barn - there was still a chance he could be saved.

Murmuring reassuring whispered promises to him that didn’t even register in her mind as they left her lips, she scrunched her eyes closed as a wave of bone-deep terror flooded through her unbeating heart. His breathing was becoming more shallow and hoarse. She pressed her lips against his forehead, lingering fiercely.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned him. “Don’t you bloody dare.”

With herculean effort, she clambered to her feet and stepped away. Ashildr squared herself in front of Anahson and Clara frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Ashildr said, her voice deceptively calm. “But you can’t. You saw what happened to her out there; she can’t be put through something like that so soon. It’s not fair.”

“What are you talking about?” Anahson tried to move around Ashildr to see the Doctor but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. “Clara, what’s happening?”

“The Doctor needs your help,” Clara explained, feeling guilty but dampening it. They had to give him a chance, she owed him that much at the very least.

“Clara…” Ashildr’s warning tone rang sharply around the console room.

“What, Ashildr?” Clara felt a flare of anger towards her friend. “We shouldn’t save him? We should just let him disappear? How can you even say that?”

“You’re not thinking clearly. We don’t know that Anahson can save him, it might already be too late. He wouldn’t want her to risk herself like this for him. He can regenerate, she can’t.”

“I want to help. I don’t want him to -” Anahson’s voice cracked a little as she tried to push past Ashildr. She was still shaky and unsteady on her feet but she tried to pull her back straight and reach her full height. If the Doctor needed her, she was willing to do whatever it took. She might not have been able to save Bayn but she was not going to miss an opportunity to even the balance a little.

“Thank you, Anahson.” Clara gave a fractured smile of relief as Anahson made her way over to where the Doctor lay and looked down at him, concerned. Ashildr, however, was not ready to let the matter drop.

“How many more people have to suffer before you’ll admit what’s happening here, Clara?”

“Shut up, Ashildr. Just - shut up. I’m fed up of hearing about bloody prophecies. This is our life, not some Gallifreyan legend.”

“‘Our life?’ Both of you, together.” Ashildr threw her hands up in the air. “And you don’t think there’s a problem with that?”

“That’s _enough_.” Clara’s tone was thunderous.

She turned her back on her friend and faced the one person in the room she wasn’t furious with at that particular moment. “Anahson, I’m so sorry but I’m not asking, I’m begging. Please, help him.”

“What do I need to do?”

Ashildr sighed and made her way over to the nearest flight seat, sitting down heavily. She watched as Clara and Anahson crouched next to the Doctor. Clara took Anahson’s hands and guided them to the unconscious Time Lord’s temples.

“Like this,” Clara instructed, “before, I was able to communicate with his Time Lord subconscious by - well, I don’t know exactly - but if you connect here, it seems to work.” She paused, looking at Anahson’s expression as the other girl swallowed nervously. “Are you okay? Can you do this?”

“He really said he thought I could help?” Anahson adjusted her hands on the Doctor’s head and tried to reach out with her mind. She felt exhausted and as much as she tried to concentrate on the Doctor and the Doctor only, her thoughts kept straying to her father’s body, left lying there in the courtyard alone.

“Take a deep breath,” Clara suggested, “I know it’s hard. If you feel like you can’t -”

“I can do it.” Anahson said, firmly. She exhaled, focusing on her breath. She blocked out the sounds of the TARDIS, the hovering of Clara and the silent, impotent anger of Ashildr. She allowed her thoughts to travel down her arms and into her fingertips where they pressed against the Doctor’s clammy skin. Briefly, Bayn’s final moments flashed in front of her again but she used the pain the image caused to push through, surging her psychic energy towards her friend. He needed her help.

A barn. Ramshackle and homely. Night time.

Opening her eyes, Anahson took a tentative step forward. She took in her surroundings, testing the boundaries of the space she found herself in. It was a psychic construct, expertly maintained.

“Doctor?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded older than it used to. “Are you here? It’s me, Anahson. Clara said -”

She heard a footfall behind her and turned towards it. A shadow slinked across the wall and disappeared. Something akin to dread rippled across her skin. Another step, this time less confident than before.

“Who’s there?” She called, suspiciously feeling as though she had entered a scene from a horror film. “Come out and face me.”

A tap on her shoulder, real and solid. Anahson span around, hearing a cackling laugh that seemed to fill the air around her. Another shadow - perhaps the same one - this time lingering a shade darker. If she looked at it without trying to see it directly, if she perceived it from the corner of her eye, she could make out the outline of a man. Shorter than the Doctor, a different shape entirely. _What in the -_

Abruptly, she found the connection between herself and the Doctor severed and, blinking, she fell into Clara as she was yanked firmly across to the other side of the TARDIS console room.

“Stay back,” Clara warned, her gaze transfixed on the Doctor’s skin and the golden shimmer that was growing stronger and more frantic with each passing second. As Anahson recovered herself she moved next to Ashildr, shrinking back even as Clara edged forward, unable to help herself.

“Clara, don’t get too close,” Ashildr warned, “you know what this is.”

“Anahson,” Clara’s voice cracked as it broke under the power of her emotions, “was he in there? Did you see him one last time?”

Anahson wasn’t sure what to say so she opted for the truth: “He wasn’t there. There was...There was someone else.”

Clara nodded, her fears confirmed. “Okay. Okay. I think we’re just about to meet them. Don’t be scared. Be brave, yeah?”

She stared at the manic grey curls on her Doctor’s head as the light engulfing his body began to pulse rapidly. In her mind, she whispered a helpless goodbye over and over again until she realised she was speaking out loud, nonsense words that simultaneously revealed too much and not enough. She tried her best to imprint the image of his beloved face into her brain before the light took over completely whilst  acknowledging deep down that he was already seared into her consciousness, that she would never forget this version of him any more than she could any of the others. This one, however, with his eyebrows and his fierceness and his bad manners; he was special. He was the one she had been with in the Cloisters, the one whose blue eyes had filled with tears in that dark, private space.

_It was time._

With a final burst of brilliant gold and yellow, searing white in the middle, the regeneration energy peaked, whooshing around the console room as though it had a life of its own. Clara ducked as the energy shot over her head, automatically closing her eyes to protect them. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

The TARDIS fell silent. Not even the noise of the rotors could be heard. Clara opened her eyes and looked over to where the Doctor had been laying. She blinked. Once, twice.

He was still there. Still angry-looking even though unconscious, still grey, still the most beautiful sight she could have hoped to see. _But_ …What did this mean? Her mind raced but failed to supply any useful answers beyond a burgeoning hope that maybe they didn’t have such bad timing after all. Ashildr gripped her arm painfully and Clara turned her head to frown at her. The other woman’s focus, however, was at the other side of the room. Clara followed her gaze.

A stranger was stood at the opposite side of the console.

He wore a tailored black suit and a black shirt, his collar done up at the top button. He wore leather shoes that shined expensively in the dim light of the roundels. His black hair, slicked back, formed a slight widow’s peak. Thin lips curled into a satisfied smile. He seemed to relish their attention.

Clara stalked slowly around the console, keeping her Doctor in sight as she approached this new man. She hid a shudder as his dark eyes flickered across her form.

“Doctor?” She tilted her head at a slight angle, trying to read him. He didn’t seem very doctory. Where was the warmth? The compassion?

“No,” His voice was rich and plummy, dripping with condescension. “I would never go by that name.”

“But -” Clara faltered, “I don’t understand. Okay. All right. We can get through this. Everything will be okay. There are two of you. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last.”

She edged closer, looking up at him, painfully aware that she didn’t have to crane her neck as much as she did with the unconscious version lying on the floor. She scrutinised his face, his cold stare meeting hers unflinching. She took a sudden step back.

“You’re not the Doctor,” she said, feeling the need to step in front of the speechless Anahson and Ashildr to protect them. “Who the hell are you?”

That smile was back, creeping across his face and making her feel as though something had just crawled across her grave. Given her current state, it wasn’t a sensation she appreciated.

“You, my dear,” he said, smoothing down imperceptible creases in the arms of his suit, “you can call me The Valeyard.”

* * *

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/The_Valeyard


	7. Fighting Unknown Shadows

_“When I go to bed in the night, I see some children in the light,_

_Fighting unknown shadows behind my mother’s back._

_And although I don’t understand my dreams,_

_I know somewhere there is hope.”_  

‘I Won’t Complain’ - Benjamin Clementine

* * *

The stark white walls reflected the scarlet uniforms of the Citadel guards as they stormed into the workshop level, maintaining a tight formation through the winding corridors. Gastron led his platoon, weapon at the ready as he brought them to a halt just outside the room where the warning had been triggered. He raised his hand, balled into a fist, to bring them to a halt. With the whirl of a finger, he instructed two of his soldiers to take covering positions either side of the main door to the chamber. The rest of the unit lined up along the walls, each of them nervous but prepared. Gastron felt as though the weapons themselves were pointless, knowing as he did that none of his team would want to turn them on their suspected target. He remembered flinging his own gun to the sand not so long ago, could vividly recall the certainty of the gesture and the relief that followed as soon as he’d made it. Ideally, history would repeat itself.

Boots marched towards them and the rear guard made sure of who was approaching. The General swept down the corridor as the troops parted to make way for her. Her hand instinctively rested on her sidearm, a habit Gastron made a mental note of, considering how things had gone for his commanding officer last time.

“Is the room sealed?” she asked, pulling up alongside him and nodding to the guards either side of the door.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, “we’ve not heard anything from inside since they materialised.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, this could work in our favour. If the Doctor has truly returned to us, we don’t need to rely on…” she lowered her voice so only he could hear. Some information wasn’t readily available outside of the higher echelons of security clearance, “...the other one.” Gastron inclined his head in agreement, keeping his private thoughts about that little arrangement entirely to himself. He knew the General had the same misgivings but there was no point in retreading old ground; what was done was done - a philosophy alien to the Time Lords most of the time yet particularly fitting in this instance, he decided.

“Right,” the General announced, raising her voice to a volume that brooked no arguments. “Let’s open it up. Be on your guard. We’ve all heard the prophecy; take no chances but make sure your weapons are set to stun. No one - I repeat _no one_ \- has authority for a kill shot apart from myself and Major Gastron.” There was an audible clatter of plastic and metal as a host of weapons were raised from their resting positions to being on full alert. With a wave of her hand, the General released the deadlock on the door and it slid quietly open. Beyond, the room was dark and still until she stepped over the threshold when the automatic lighting flickered on, a row at a time. As the workshop was brought into sharp relief, the old police box - back in its original mooring spot after untold centuries - was the last thing to be illuminated. It shone a brilliant blue, seeming to draw energy from the sanctity of the room.

The General and Gastron approached cautiously, vigilant for anything out of the ordinary. As they reached the TARDIS, its door opened a reluctant crack. The General caught Gastron’s eye and indicated for him to lead the way. Knowing better than to use his gun to push the door open, he reached out with his hand and gave the wood a gentle nudge of encouragement. It swung open with a creak and, with a quick internal plea for this to go smoothly, he stepped inside.

In the homely console room, the lights were dimmed as though the old ship was mourning. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the change in brightness but as he glanced around he was able to discern three people: Clara Oswald was stood at the console, pulling her fingers out of the fronds of the telepathic circuits as he entered. A Janus and another woman he half recognised from the surveillance archives - Me, was it? An immortal - were sat on opposing flight seats, looking exhausted. He paused as he spotted the body on the floor. The Doctor. Same regeneration. Was he dead? No, he could see the gentle raising and lowering of his chest as he breathed deeply. Unconscious then. That didn’t seem to fit the prophecy at all. Glancing over his shoulder as he heard the General enter, some of his confusion must have shown on his face.

“Hello. Gastron, is it?” said Clara Oswald, “Nice to see you again. General.” The human’s tone was clipped and, given how thoroughly she had put the General in her place the last time they had met, it was clear her pleasantries were a formality. Even that revealed something; from the looks of it, Clara Oswald had come to request their help.

“You can stand your soldiers down,” Clara suggested, “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

The General made her way over to where the Doctor lay but Clara cleared her throat before she could get too close. “You stay away from him. Before you take another single step, I’m going to need some assurances.”

Smiling, the General regarded the human closely. “Maybe I need you to make some assurances of your own. I assume you’ve come here for our help? What makes you think you’re in a position to make demands?” It wasn’t necessarily a retort, more genuine curiosity.

“Because I think, deep down, you care about the Doctor as much as I do,” the General raised an eyebrow at this and Clara had the grace to look chastened, “well, okay, not even remotely as much. Fine. But he’s a son of Gallifrey and he’s your bloody war hero and you owe him a lot more than you’ve ever given him. It’s time to start paying your debts.”

Gastron was struggling to move his gaze away from the prone man on the floor. He looked so different in repose, almost peaceful if it weren’t for his grey pallor and line etched face. “What happened to him?” he asked before he was able to stop himself. He caught the General’s quick glare and sank back slightly. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

The Janus girl sat to the side suddenly shifted forwards, having been watching the exchange intently throughout, a look of fierce concentration on her front face. “She knows,” she declared, addressing Clara.

“The General?”

“It’s hard to see but it’s the name that’s echoing in her head. She’s not thinking about the Doctor. She’s thinking about -”

“About the Valeyard,” Clara concluded, watching the General’s response. The uniformed woman seemed to slump her shoulders a little at the mention of the name, something akin to resignation filtering through her professional mask. “That’s why I’m in the position to make demands,” Clara continued, moving away from the console and walking around to where the Doctor was lying, “because we’ve just met him. He was stood where you’re standing right now, not ten minutes ago, relatively speaking.”

The General’s hand jumped to her side arm as Gastron immediately raised his own weapon. The time travellers watched with interest. Ashildr folded her arms across her chest and gave a grim smile.

“Yes, definitely bad news,” she said to Clara, who nodded thoughtfully.

“He’s gone,” she told them. “Blipped out of here without even using a vortex manipulator. How did he do that?”

The General shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense, he was supposed to be...”

Clara took another step towards the General, her expression softening a little. “Okay, so it sounds like we’re both in the dark. Maybe, this time round, we’re on the same side, yes?” The General nodded and the tense atmosphere in the room shifted, the lights brightening. “So,” Clara carried on, feeling more confident, “you and I both know there’s only one person clever enough to help us get all this straightened out and, trust me when I say that this is a significant deal breaker when it comes to my cooperation: the Doctor. Can you help him?”

“We have the best physicians at our disposal…” the General faltered as she saw the human’s brow furrow at her vague answer. She stopped, tried again. “I can’t promise we can save him, but I can promise we will try.”

Clara looked over to Ashildr and Anahson, who gave minute nods. Turning back to the General and Gastron, she took a step to the side and allowed them access to where the Doctor lay, unmoving. “Okay,” she said, holding her chin up resolutely despite the feeling of relief that washed over her, weakening her knees, “let’s come to an agreement, shall we?”

* * *

Smoke billowed from the tower block, filling the sky and darkening the already oppressive grey clouds which loomed overhead like curious bystanders. Sirens blared, the discordant soundtrack to the worst day of someone’s life. Blue lights from first responders highlighted the tears tracking down the soot-streaked faces of the survivors who huddled behind bright yellow tape that fluttered aimlessly in the cold winter breeze. The building beyond blazed wildly, its crumbling walls defying the attempts of the fire crews below as they tried to control it. The wind whipped the flames, raining ash and embers onto the damp, sodden ground.

On a nearby hill, far away enough to avoid suspicion but close enough to take it all in, sat the Valeyard. He seemed almost disinterested, a man unfortunate enough to witness the start of it all; wrong place, wrong time. The truth, not that anyone would ever be likely uncover it, was exactly the opposite.

He folded over the _Financial Times_ and placed it carefully on the wooden bench as he felt a shift in the fabric of space time, a slight warmth in the breeze that didn’t match the season. He stood as the TARDIS materialised around him, encompassing the bench and the small litter bin next to it. As the ship solidified, he found himself stood in a garish American diner, all chrome, black and white tiles and red leather. His face curled into disgust.

“Return to the vortex immediately,” he called as he strode towards the back room, “this monstrosity is hardly subtle.” He waltzed into the console room, his long jacket whipping the air behind him dramatically.

“Oh calm yourself,” Missy drawled, cranking a handle and propelling the TARDIS back into the vortex with a flourish, “you ask for a lift, you lose the right to complain about the get away vehicle.” She carefully walked around the console to meet him, heels deliberately clacking loudly on the floor.

His dark eyes flickered up and down her form, sizing her up.

“Evidently you received my message in the Cloisters,” he said, placing his hands on his hips.

“Evidently.” Missy narrowed her eyes. He hadn’t changed, obviously. The Valeyard was incapable of regeneration - _and didn’t that just drive him mad?_ \- but there was something new shining in his eyes, glimmering dangerously. It looked almost like triumph, though not quite. She didn’t want to give him the victory of asking too many questions, however. He’d share his secrets soon enough; the Valeyard enjoyed hearing himself talk even more than the Doctor did. Speaking of...there was one question she couldn’t hold back.

“Is he gone? Your better half?”

“Temporarily indisposed,” the Valeyard closed his eyes briefly, angling his head as though listening to a voice no one else would be able to hear, “but the human will soon bring him back.”

Missy hid a small smirk as she activated the monitor, watching the footage she had recorded of the tower block just as the energy beam had torn through the clouds and struck the building with its terrible might. There was every chance the Valeyard had, for all the infinite knowledge he had no doubt stolen from the Matrix, grossly underestimated the irritating resilience of Clara Oswald.

“So what’s this?” She asked, indicating the screen with her thumb, “a postcard? A love letter?” She enjoyed the anger that briefly darkened his features, the slight flush of red at the top of his ears. Oh, it was going to be fun poking at all of his weak spots.

“Nothing so vulgar,” he folded his arms across his chest and watched as the footage repeated; the bright green energy bursting through the clouds out of nowhere, out of time and out of place. A fireball rocketed through the old concrete, nearby trees swaying with the force of the blast.

Suddenly, the Valeyard was next to her, between her and the console. His expression was thunderous as she expertly hid her surprise.

“You forget, Mistress,” he sneered her title, “I have been imprisoned in the Matrix for untold millennia. I have been privy to and part of all of time itself; a witness to everything that was, everything that could ever be -”

“That’s very impressive. You should put that on your Tinder profile, all the girls will be swiping right.”

“I know you were sent by the High Council. I know you have no intention of doing what they asked of you but I also know you have every intention of betraying me,” he interrupted before she could get into her full swing.

“I forgot how boring you can be,” she announced, skipping away from him lightly, “did you not want to keep your big mouth shut and see how it all played out?”

“You are still alive, are you not?”

Missy froze, slowly brought her hands to her chest as though to feel for her double heart beats. She gasped and open her eyes and mouth widely before letting out a laugh of sheer joy, “Oh, mercy be! I am alive! It’s a miracle! Thank you, mysterious benefactor. So generous, so wise…” abruptly, she stopped and glared at him. “Of course I’m alive. You need me for something. Fine. You’ve got my attention but do not test my patience. Matrix or no, I can still crush you like the itty bitty insect you are.”

The Valeyard smirked as though this was an impossibility. He turned his back on her and began to set a course on the console. Missy felt some of the air leave her sails. “Are you quite finished?” He asked, leaning back as he entered the last instruction and the time rotors began to whirr and creak. “There is no need for such unpleasantness. I propose a truce. An alliance, if you will, until such time that it becomes...untenable.”

Missy waved her hand at him, indicating for him to continue. His eyebrow arched sharply. “My first act was an invitation. A breadcrumb; the beginning of a trail we’re going to leave for the Doctor and his companions. We are going to lead them on a merry dance.” Missy liked the sound of that, smiling a little as she ran her finger along the edge of the console, moving away from him slowly.

“And then? Once you’ve finished with your temporal macarena? What will you do then?”

The Valeyard grinned, an action more heinous than anything he had done so far. “I will do nothing, I shan’t need to. The universe will be put to rights. The time of the Valeyard will begin - and it shall be heralded by none other than the Doctor himself.”

* * *

Clara leaned heavily against the frame of the large observation window as she watched the physicians set the Doctor onto the floor of the Zero Room. Time Lord technology, Time Lord interior design. Why was everything so white and featureless? _Classic_ , the Doctor’s voice corrected in the back of her mind. Tiredly, she wondered whether her change of clothes into something loose fitting and Gallifreyan had done anything to take away the stench of death and smoke seemingly following her around these days. She hoped so, she needed to keep the others on side and it wouldn’t do her any favours if she was repellent. Perhaps that was why the General had insisted on the change of costume in the first place. She experimentally flapped the long, asymmetrical sleeves of her flowing top, feeling the air pass through them. Impractical. No good for sprinting from monsters or lighting candles. She’d demanded trousers instead of the floor length skirt, however, and had requested a pair of flat, solid shoes instead of the ornately heeled sandals they had originally offered. If it wasn’t such a cynical thought, she would have wondered whether they were purposefully trying to restrict her ability to run away.

Behind her, she could feel Ashildr hovering. The reflection of the other woman was distorted in the window’s thick glass. Clara got the impression Ashildr was waiting for an apology for their earlier argument on the TARDIS but, frankly, Clara was still too angry to reach out. Ashildr’s steadfast acceptance of this Hybrid myth - prophecy, whatever you wanted to call it - was starting to get old. Especially now that the Valeyard was out there. He seemed to have rattled the Gallifreyans more than the Hybrid ever had. _Who knows? Maybe they are one and the same. Maybe there’s still a way the Doctor and I can..._ She killed that train of thought. Clara hadn’t had a full discussion with the General and the High Council yet, she’d  been too busy fighting tooth and nail to stay with the Doctor and make sure they were treating him well. Whatever the political or universal ramifications of the Valeyard - and she was starting to assume it was both - she would not allow herself to become embroiled in it until she knew the Doctor was going to recover. In the meantime, of course, that man was out there somewhere, doing...god knows what.

“They’ve given us some living quarters in the Citadel,” Ashildr interrupted Clara’s increasingly scattered thought processes, “Anahson’s having a sleep already, they gave her some kind of tea so she could drift off without - well, you know.” Clara nodded, not looking away from where the Doctor was lying, the hospital-like gown they’d changed him into swamping him and making his form look even more slender than usual. She was glad the young Janus was going to get some rest. She’d had a hard time of it to say the least.

“You could come,” Ashildr carried on, “put your feet up for a bit. It’s not big, but it’s comfortable. I’m going to put my head down myself.”

“You do that,” Clara said, shortly.

“Clara, I’m not going to apologise for telling you the truth.” Ashildr sounded weary. “If we don’t tell each other the truth, we’re no use to each other.”

Clara relaxed a little. She didn’t want to get into a fight right now and, considering the fate of the Universe was in the balance, she couldn’t even really accuse Ashildr of overreacting. “I just,” she struggled to find the words but finally turned to face the other woman, “I’m just not sure I buy it, you know? That the Doctor and I are the Hybrid.” She held up a hand to stop Ashildr from speaking before she’d finished her piece. “Why are _you_ so convinced it’s us? Why not the Daleks and the Time Lords, like everyone thought?”

Ashildr tilted her head to the side and appraised her friend honestly. “It’s a story that’s weaved through time and space. If you live for long enough, you start to pick up on the patterns. Which myths endure, which ones don’t.”

Clara folded her arms across her chest. “Well, it won’t be an issue soon. I’ll honour my deal with the General.”

“I know you will,” Ashildr laid an understanding hand on Clara’s arm, “I’m exhausted. Sure you don’t need to meditate?”

“Nah, I’ll stay here,” she turned her attention back to the Zero Room’s inhabitant, “he might want someone there when he wakes up.”

Ashildr didn’t have the heart to tell her that it might not happen and she knew, deep down, that Clara was already aware. Her insistence on staying with the Doctor at this particular moment was probably as much to do with wanting to be present if he didn’t recover as much as if he did. She noticed the General approaching at the other end of the corridor and decided it was time for her to leave.

“Well, you know where I’ll be if you need me. And Clara, for what it’s worth -” the former Viking trailed off, hoping the vague utterance of support would be enough.

“I know,” Clara did her best to give her friend a warm smile but it failed to fully light behind her eyes. Ashildr nodded, turned on her heel and walked slowly and tiredly down the corridor. Clara resumed her position against the observation window, watching the General’s cautious approach out of the corner of her eye.

“Miss Oswald,” the General began, clearing her throat.

“Any word from these experts of yours?” she asked, wanting to skip the circuitous formalities she had noticed dogged Gallifreyan exchanges - and the General was one of the ones who was more to the point so god knew how much their equivalent of accountants would prattle on. She had a whole new appreciation for the Doctor and his abrupt manners; he really didn’t fit in here at all. Her heart went out to him, understanding that little crying boy in the barn all the more.

“Yes,” the General hesitated and Clara leaned forward. It didn’t sound like it was going to be good news.

“Is this the bit where you tell me there’s good news and bad news?” she tried to lighten her tone but wasn’t entirely sure she succeeded. Absently, she ran her thumb over her raven tattoo to hide her nervousness.

“Essentially, yes,” the General took a deep breath, “they think they can undo the damage of the neural block. From what your Janus friend told us, the psychic construct the Doctor created to protect himself was still intact, even when the Valeyard was emerging.”

Clara frowned. _So the Valeyard_ had _emerged from the Doctor’s subconscious? What did that even mean?_

“So if the construct was still there, the Doctor’s got to be in there somewhere too, right?”

The General nodded. “They believe they can use the residual regeneration energy to reverse the block and give the Doctor his memories back. The Zero Room will help with that, it will focus the process,” she paused, “you did the right thing bringing him to us, Miss Oswald.”

“That wasn’t me, that was the TARDIS. I just,” she gestured with her hands, “shoved my fingers into her telepathic circuits and swore a lot. Seemed to do the trick.” The General smiled at this and Clara thought over what she had just learned, feeling positive for the first time in a long while. Suddenly, something occurred to her. “Wait: so he’ll get all his memories back? All at once?”

“Yes. He’ll remember you, Miss Oswald. Every detail the block suppressed.”

Clara shook her head. How could they be so stupid? Did they not even consider the Doctor at all in this? “That’s not what I meant. Think about it: you’re giving the Doctor over 2,000 years of memories. Hell, maybe even 4.5 billion years of memories if the Confession Dial comes back to him. You’re going to fill his mind with everything from Autons to Daleks to the Zygon, the Time War, Trenzalore. Everyone he’s loved and lost. All that suffering and joy and fear, terror and pain; all at once. Did you even stop to consider what that’s going to _do to him_?”

From the look on her face, the General had not. “He would deem it a necessary risk. Trust me, if the Doctor knew the Valeyard was out there in the universe, he would do whatever it took to stop him.”

“Yes, well, he doesn’t always know what’s best for him. I can’t…” feeling a special kind of building desperation, Clara turned back to look through the window at the still figure lying in the centre of the room, “you’ve already started the process, haven’t you? You waited until it was too late to tell me because you knew I’d make you find another way.”

The General straightened her back defiantly, standing almost to attention. “It was for the greater good.”

Clara clenched her jaw and raised her lip into a snarl. She could feel her patience with the Time Lady in front of her snap into something brittle and cold. How could she have trusted them after what they put him through in the Confession Dial? After they’d cost her her own life on Trap Street? She took a furious step towards the General and felt a glimmer of satisfaction when she saw the other woman swallow.

“Well, you’d better find a way to get me in that room with him, because there’s no way on this planet or any other that I’m letting him go through that alone.”

* * *

Ashildr pushed her way noiselessly into the dimly lit living quarters, not wanting to disturb Anahson. Glancing towards the darkened bedroom enviously, she shucked off her shoes and let her feet sink into the thick carpet. Making her way over to the long, practical sofa that filled the living area, she all but fell down onto it. It wasn’t as soft a landing as she’d hoped but it felt wonderful to be able to stretch out. With a sigh, she flung her arm over her face and shut her eyes. _Bliss_.

And then she heard it. Something bleeping, a high pitched, urgent kind of noise.

With a groan, she cracked open a bleary eye and sat up. There was a unit at the other side of the room whose lights seemed to flash in unison with the noise. Ashildr hesitated for a second, fighting with the part of herself that very much just wanted to go to sleep and pretend she hadn’t heard anything. Apart from now, of course, it was all she could hear.

Pulling a face in annoyance at her own curiosity, she got up and padded over to the unit. It seemed to be some sort of communications relay. There was a message waiting. She touched the panel that was lit up and jumped back a little as a hologrammatic display suddenly spewed scrolls of Gallifreyan text forth from an embedded projector hidden somewhere in the ceiling.

As the light of the text filled the room, Ashildr heard a noise behind her and turned to see Anahson padding across the floor, rubbing a hand across her face and yawning widely. The Janus paused as she saw the display and wandered over.  
  
"What's that?" she asked, carefully stretching her neck out.  
  
"Go back to sleep," Ashildr responded, feeling guilty for potentially waking the girl up, "it just appeared. Seems to be information about the Valeyard..." She squinted as the residual power of the TARDIS experienced a delay in translating the text.  
  
"I'm awake. Feel rested, actually." Anahson looked around and pulled over a small piece of furniture, moving it in place next to Ashildr. "Is this a chair, do you think? It looks like it could be but," she angled her head thoughtfully, "it could also be a priceless piece of Gallifreyan art." Ashildr smirked and turned her attention back to the text. Anahson perched on the edge of the  wooden sculpture, wobbling momentarily as she made sure she wasn't going to fall off. She felt a flare of sadness threaten to overwhelm her now she was fully awake but focused on the scrolling text instead, blinking as the letters rearranged themselves into English.  
  
"How's the Doctor doing?" Anahson asked, quietly.

"Clara's with him," Ashildr reached over and paused the scrolling text with her finger, rewound it a little, "no change though."  
  
"Is she okay?"

Ashildr frowned. "Look at this," she indicated the text in front of them, “this is a classified correspondence from Rassilon himself.”

“Rassilon?”

“He’s the Lord President of Gallifrey. Or was, until the Doctor deposed him when he found his way back here. He was exiled but never mind that. We shouldn’t be seeing this, someone’s sent it to us on purpose.”

Ashildr scanned through the text, a feeling of unease rising in her throat. She paused on a particular passage. Anahson frowned and read the writing that hovered above them, trying to make sense of it: _‘the Doctor will believe we have granted him a new regeneration cycle out of the goodness of our hearts. He will be too distracted to investigate our whereabouts further. If he is so unwilling to free his people of this damned pocket universe, the solution presented by the Matrix is our only recourse. Tell the Valeyard I agree to his terms...for now.’_

“That - doesn’t sound good?” Ashildr heard Anahson ask as she sorted through the message and tried to determine its recipient. The file seemed to be corrupted and was truncated at its source. Ashildr had learned a thing or two about espionage during her extended lifetime however, and could probably recall a few tricks if she really put her mind to it.

“There’s more going on here than meets the eye,” Ashildr muttered to herself. “Why am I getting the impression that this whole thing has been orchestrated from the start?”

“Since the start of what?” Anahson reached out a hand to Ashildr’s arm, trying to slow the other woman down as she scrolled through the documents they had been sent, faster and faster until the text was making her vision blur.

“Since the start of time itself,” Ashildr said, gravely. “I hope you’re feeling rested Anahson, it looks like we’ve got some serious digging to do.”

* * *

Pain.

Pain and yellow.

Pain and yellow and bright white.

Pain and yellow and bright white and something warm on his right hand.

Pain and yellow and bright white and something warm on his right hand. A rushing vortex, a blue box, a comforting place, his TARDIS. _Home_.

His universe expanded. Different faces, different attitudes, different clothes and different voices. They echoed around his head now, a cacophony. Sometimes quiet, sometimes shouting. He watched through different eyes as stars were born and died, as black holes silently swallowed civilisations, whole systems, never to be seen again. He saw the brutal indifference of a universe headed inexorably and uncaringly to its own demise, tendrils of time reaching out and pulling it onwards, always onwards.

Species rose and fell, following patterns as though pre-determined. The violence, the fire, the anger, the hate. A voice in his ear now, telling him: ‘ _Look at the wonders you’ve seen. The hope. The beauty.’_ ’ And he saw them but they were faint and he couldn’t reach them, swimming through the pool of his memories, too thick and stagnant, clinging to his mind as he panicked and floundered. He felt soft hands holding him up as he struggled against the tides of time.

_EXTERMINATE!_

A deathly cold metallic laugh rang out and he couldn’t feel the warmth on his hand anymore, only the icy grip of death. Desperately, he reached out until he found the warmth again and crushed it in his terror.  He found himself stood in a ruined city, untold numbers of bronze ships hovering overhead as they spewed reams upon reams of Daleks into the dead sky. He cowered as dread overwhelmed him and fury rose inside his chest. With a scream that shook the very ground he was stood on, he saw a bright green wave emerge from somewhere deep inside himself. Spreading at speed, it destroyed them all, every single one of them. Everyone burned until only he remained, alone and afraid.

 _‘Not alone_ ,’ that voice again. ‘ _Never alone for long_.  _Promise me_.’

A flash of a face so familiar to him. Gone now. _Susan_. _Ian and Barbara_. He felt a rush wash over him and the pain, the yellow and the white retreated a little. The warmth from his hand travelled up his arm into his shoulder. It seeped into his skin.

He gasped as faces appeared before him. Bidding him hello, expressions of wonder and joy. But they all left in the end, one way or another. _Nothing is sad until it’s over, then everything is._ Vicki and Steven and Polly and Jamie and - _gods, make it stop_. _Please, I’d do anything to make it stop._

The Autons marched toward him now, masks blank and unfeeling. Their arms raised up and fingers pointing in accusation. He stood trial in front of the universe. The oncoming storm, the defender of worlds. And still the faces came, a jury of his peers but they had never been equals and that was why he was always destined to be hurt in the end.

 _‘Not hurt, not always. Look again.’_ What was that voice? It felt important.

He frowned at the voice but tried to do what it advised. He was just floating around in the quagmire of time, the voice seemed to know what it was doing. Have a plan: you must always have a plan. So he looked again and he saw that the faces sometimes smiled, even as they ran from lumbering monsters. Across the console room, he’d grin and whoop and they would too. Their eyes reflected supernovae and, through them, he experienced the universe anew. They were brave. They faced down demons and they did the right thing. The Brigadier, Jo… Sarah Jane. LeelaAdricTeganRomanaPeriMelAce. Their faces all flashed in front of his eyes and the stories he had forgotten almost overwhelmed him. Disembodied, he watched them arrive and leave, heard Adric’s voice that final time.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded broken and faulty but he needed to tell them all. “I shouldn’t have -”

_‘Shush, it’s okay. We forgive you. We always will.’’_

Earth. He was on Earth. This frustrating planet to which he was always drawn, through genetics, through curiosity. Through love. He was in the Highlands, in London, in Essex, floating above, being chased below, running through Cardiff. Before time, after time. He held hands with Rose as he watched the world burn, as he tried to explain to her all the wrong he had done. And then he watched her get ripped away. He heard himself shout her name in agony, felt himself cry tears he had already cried.

The warmth travelled from his arm and spread across his chest. He felt his heartbeats constrict and flutter under a gentle pressure. The metal trudge of Cybermen marching evaporated the feeling of calm and he felt himself running, stumbling for his life over countless bodies. They piled on top of each other, reaching ever upwards and he scrambled over them, heading steadily towards a bright and shining crack in a wall that glistened like a maniac’s smile. He tried not to look at those he was using as a ladder but there was that voice again: _‘Remember us, we’re here to help you. Never be cruel and never be cowardly.’_

“I am a coward, I’m sorry.”

_‘No. You’re the bravest man we know.’_

He opened his eyes, having never realised that he’d been clenching them shut. Only then did he see that what he thought were corpses were friends, all of the friends he’d ever known and they were helping him. Their hands reached for him as they lifted him towards the crack, pushing him and pulling him, smiling as they met his eye. Jamie gave him a cheeky wink, Martha and Donna teamed up to toss him higher,Captain Jack Harkness playfully squeezed his arse cheek. The Doctor almost let out a laugh.

A pair of hands reached through the crack and he grabbed them, for some reason trusting that they would pull him though. And they did, together. A shock of red hair and a daft Centurion outfit that looked out of place even in his memory.

Rory and Amy.

Rory, a smile on his face and an arm around Amy who fussily straightened a bowtie the Doctor hadn’t even notice he was wearing. He scowled down at his outfit.

“This isn’t me. This isn’t me anymore.”

The warmth radiated down his chest and he started to become aware of his limbs. He wasn’t moving physically, he was lying down on a soft floor. But where? His legs twitched experimentally yet he was reluctant to leave Amy and Rory behind. He wanted to speak, to say something profound but although his mouth moved, nothing came out.

Always so useless at goodbyes.

He stared at them with wide eyes, trying to delay what he knew would happen next. Time marched on relentlessly, as much as he wanted to bend it to his whim. They vanished. He let out a howl of grief, feeling a hand grab his and lead him to into a cloud before he had time to react. River Song sat him down, blew him a kiss and disappeared herself with an unspoken promise to return.

Blissfully, horrendously, for a few moments, the Doctor was alone.

In reality, he realised, now that his brain was catching up with the stimulation that had overwhelmed him at first, he was sat propped up, that much he could tell. And he could feel someone behind his back supporting him, their arms wrapped around his chest tightly but he was unable to move, couldn’t turn around to find out who it was.

 _Okay, memories_. _These are memories returning. Memories I somehow lost_.

The voice again: _‘You’re almost there. Stay with me.’_

A figure appeared in the clouds before him; a woman with her back to him. She was wearing a grey jumper and black jeans, had mussed shoulder-length brown hair. She was cast in shadow and he squinted towards her, intrigued. An impossible girl. He felt compelled to follow her and, as he scrambled to his feet, he saw she held out a hand behind her. He stared at it for a few moments before reaching out with his own and gently joining their palms together.

She led him from the cloud and, as they walked, different locations raced by: London, Akhaten, a submarine. All the while, his recollection blossomed like a flower at dawn in a sun struck garden. His timestream, she’d jumped in his timestream. They’d been in the barn when the greatest evil he’d ever committed was gloriously undone. As he followed her, he looked up and saw it had started to snow. She led them through a small village, hardly anything to look at but he faltered all the same, filled with fear. It was all coming flooding back: wave after wave of enemy, baying for his blood and dreading his name. He would have shrunk back if it wasn’t for the gentle pressure on his hand pulling him forwards. With a burst of golden light, he remembered his regeneration - some time between his twelfth and his final - and something new occurred to him he simply hadn’t considered at the time: there was too much energy even for brand new regeneration cycle; it had to be powering something else. _Remember that_.

Still, she was leading him by the hand and it wasn’t until they finally approached a quiet, ramshackle street hidden away in the depths of London that he finally worked up the nerve to speak. Her hand had dropped away from his so he wrung his fingers together nervously.

“Clara.”

She stopped walking but didn’t turn to face him. A raven was frozen in time before her, its curved beak in perfect alignment with her chest. His hearts clenched and he could feel his body shaking with the effort of holding everything he was feeling in.

“I can’t do this, Clara. You know what comes next.”

The voice, _her voice_ , was hesitant. ‘ _We have to bring back everything before the neural block. It’s the only way to save you. If there was any other way…’_

There was a shuffle thump behind him.

He span around to face it and as soon as he looked away from her, she was gone. Shuffle thump and a stench of death. A buzzing of flies and suddenly he was falling, falling, falling. Over and over again, regaining consciousness, gasping for air. He relived the moment she died until it was seared into the fabric of his being: _how many seconds in eternity_? He missed the warmth that no longer pressed into his hand as he gazed upon billions of his own skulls, sinking silently to rest in the sand beneath him as he floated, adrift.

He opened an eye: it was too bright, glowing and white. It hurt and he squeezed his lids shut again. The Doctor could feel himself teetering on a precipice, the final memories slotting into place as he started to come around. He could feel his back warm against her chest, could hear her murmuring to him reassuringly. But he still hadn’t seen her face. He still couldn’t remember what she looked like…

His knuckles screamed with pain as the heat of the desert faded into the dark and damp of the Cloisters. He was on his knees and she was with him. Close, intimate. Her eyes were wide and shining. He drank her in; she had never looked more... _Clara_. She was speaking and he was listening. What was she saying? It was very important, he could tell. He shook his head to clear his ears, struggling to distinguish what she was saying in his memory from what she was saying in reality.

That was, until the two voices overlapped, speaking as one. With a deep breath and a spluttering gasp, the Doctor sat bolt upright, staring wildly around the Zero Room as her words echoed across time and space:

“You are loved. By everybody... And by nobody more than me.”

* * *

The only noise in the small antechamber was the sound of rustling fabric as the Doctor tried to do up his freshly washed and pressed shirt. Clara watched as his fingers trembled, struggling to push the delicate buttons home. She took a step towards him and he froze, wary blue eyes clashing with understanding brown.

They stared at each other, a silent argument taking place.

The air in the room grew still and charged. After a few moments, with a small slump to his shoulders, the Doctor acquiesced and dropped his hands limply to his sides. Clara raised her own hands, surprised they weren’t trembling themselves but it seemed unfaltering fine motor control was an unexpected benefit of being functionally dead.

She kept her gaze to the hollow point of his throat where his collar met skin. She saw him swallow as her fingers brushed his chest, watched the faint pulse to the side thrum faster at her proximity.

Once the shirt was buttoned, she smoothed her hands over his shoulders and down his arms. She appraised him lightly. He looked more like the Doctor now but there were still protective layers missing. Giving him a small smile, she crossed the two steps to where his waistcoat and velvet jacket had been carefully lain over the back of a chair. She picked them up and held the waistcoat for him to take and slip on. She kept the velvet coat within her grasp until he was done. He reached to take it but she shook her head. With something that was beginning to resemble an amused scowl, he bent down slightly and turned his back to her - an act of trust.

She guided his left arm into the jacket, dragging the material smartly over his shoulders and then repeating the process on the other side. With a hand on his back, she held him in place as she brushed away any creases before she would allow him to turn and face her.

She took a step back as though to admire her handiwork, tilting her head up at him as he stared back at her. She was struck, as she had been in the diner when she thought she was seeing him for the last time, by how beautiful he was.

“Hi,” was obviously all she could think to say.

“Hello, Clara Oswald.”

Clara reached out to brush some imaginary lint from his lapel, trying to stop her eyes from doing whatever the hell they’d decided to do without her permission. Inflating, leaking. Whatever bitingly descriptive words he would use would probably be unnervingly accurate. There was that feeling in her throat again; like everything she had ever wanted to tell him was trying to force its way out all at once but the words were tumbling over themselves in the rush. He stilled her restless hand with his own, holding it against his chest.

“How could I have forgotten?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. The ‘ _you’_ or the _‘this’_ was silent.

“You had to. One of us had to.”

“...You took the TARDIS!” he suddenly realised, blinking with surprise. She shot him an impish grin and took a step back towards him, inexplicably drawn by his gravitational pull.

“You gave me the rules. It was a pretty strong hint towards the end there.”

“I was delirious and you were crying, I had to say something.”

“Pears? Seriously. Your last words to me were about pears.”

“Actually, they were about your smile,” he gave a soft one of his own as he watched this recollection momentarily floor her.

“Really can’t handle the charm -”

There was a knock on the door. Clara expected the Doctor to jump away from her but instead he gently squeezed her hand before releasing it. He tore his gaze from her and frowned at the interruption.

“Miss Oswald? Doctor?” It was Gastron’s voice. “I’m sorry to intrude but the Council are gathered. Miss Oswald said she wanted to be informed.”

“Are you ready for this?” she asked. She hadn’t wanted to overwhelm him so soon after regaining his memories, especially once she’d been told after they had emerged together, shaken, that they had been in the Zero Room for _three days_ ; it hadn’t seemed like that from the inside of course, something to do with how the room itself worked. She didn’t know why she was still surprised by this kind of revelation anymore - not after a certain someone had spent far longer, eons longer, in his own Confession Dial. Now however, she was having a surge of panic for holding out on him about the Valeyard. He would be walking into this completely unprepared and she almost felt, for some reason, as though she were conspiring against him.

“No one’s ever ready for a High Council meeting, Clara. They’re dull as anything.” He nodded at her and reached out to fling the door open. Gastron stood to full attention and the Doctor waved a dismissive hand at the gesture, striding out into the corridor as though he hadn’t been vulnerable and confused just ten minutes previously.

“Clara?” he called out to her and she shook herself, following him out into the corridor.

There were other things she would need to tell him before much longer as well, but she wanted to be absolutely certain that he was back, that he was okay, before she even started to think about revealing to him the bargain she had made with the General.

* * *

Clara tried to pretend she belonged as she followed the Doctor into the impressive High Council chambers. Beyond the throne-like chair at the head of the table, she glimpsed a view that would have threatened to take her breath away. She wanted to walk over to the window and put her face up to the glass - because really she hadn’t really had the proper tour of Gallifrey’s more salubrious locations on her last visit, had she? - but the stultifying and pompous atmosphere in the room held her back.

Stood around the table were men and women - _Time Lords and Ladies_ , she reminded herself - bedecked in splendid robes with extravagant golden collars that Elizabeth Taylor would have envied. She felt their eyes on her as the Doctor guided her around the table, could sense their hostility. Armed guards lined the room and it was almost a relief to recognise the General and Gastron amongst their number. Not exactly friendly faces, but they at least didn’t adopt masks of condescending indifference like the others. Clara couldn’t help but notice that the majority of the guards wore a different shade to their uniform than the ones she had been met by earlier in the workshop. Special forces, perhaps?

The Doctor cleared his throat as he noticed the only chair remaining was the Lord President’s. He carefully ushered Clara to sit down in it, brushing off her hesitation as she met his subtle nod of encouragement. To his amusement, some of the High Councillors’ eyes seemed as though they were about to pop straight out of their sockets. Casually, the Doctor perched on the arm of the chair and folded his arms across his chest. The General raised her eyebrows as she took her own seat, diplomatically remaining silent.

“Doctor, I really must object -” Councillor Lonkath could hardly withhold his sneer as he remained standing whilst the rest of the Council took their seats.

“Must you?” The Doctor’s answer was immediate, his tone brooking no arguments. Clara shifted uncomfortably before giving herself a mental shake. She wasn’t about to let herself be intimidated by these Time Lords. After everything they’d done to the Doctor, she didn’t respect them enough for that. Lonkath begrudgingly took his seat and the guards around the room twitched in their otherwise perfectly motionless stances.

“Where are our friends?” Clara asked, feeling the Doctor look down at her as all the eyes in the room shifted towards her. “Where’s Ashildr and Anahson?”

“They are being taken care of,” an elderly Time Lady reassured them.

“I’ve not seen or heard from them since before I went into the Zero Room,” Clara explained to the Doctor, a hint of worry evident in her expression. He looked at her, his mouth momentarily pursed in thought.

“Major Gastron, perhaps you could be so good as to collect the Doctor’s companions?” It was surprisingly Lonkath who suggested this, his hands held out as though presenting a peace offering. Tellingly, Gastron sought the General’s approval before snapping to attention and marching from the room. As he exited, the rest of the room’s inhabitants remained quiet and still.

After a moment, the Doctor addressed the room. “Come on then, out with it. What’s got you all so rattled this time?”

The General cleared her throat and leaned forwards. She answered directly and, for that, Clara was grateful. “The Valeyard.”

Clara felt the Doctor stiffen next to her, his body radiating a sudden tension. She looked up at him but his attention was firmly fixed on the General. “What about him?” He asked, his voice strangely without emotion. The General’s gaze flickered briefly over to Clara and the Doctor caught the movement. He pushed himself away from his perch and moved so he was stood apart from everyone else. As he span around to face her, Clara was shocked by the fear she saw in his eyes.

“Clara?” He spoke very carefully now, every syllable enunciated. “What did I do?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “You regenerated,” she said, half rising from her seat but freezing when she realised that he didn’t want her to come any closer. She risked a look at the General, who refused to meet her questioning glance. “But you didn’t. The regeneration energy just sort of shot out of you and then, out of nowhere, _he_ was there but you hadn’t changed.”

“The Valeyard. You’ve met the Valeyard.” She nodded, risking a look around the table and wishing more than anything that they were having this conversation alone so that she could get him to open up to her properly, or, alternatively, so she could smack him one if necessary to snap him out of this apparent daze. His next question threw her off balance:

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, no. He was rude. A bit snarky but that was it. Disappeared into thin air. Doctor, what’s going on? Who is he?”

“The Valeyard is a creature of great malevolence,” Lonkath piped up, sounding a little too keen to be the one to tell her, “he represents the very darkest urges of a powerful Time Lord, an amalgamation of violence, greed and selfishness.”

“Sounds like a right charmer,” Clara scoffed, “but I’ve met Missy so I am familiar with your more psychopathic citizens. Why’s this ‘Valeyard’ any different?” The Doctor’s eyes were wide and pleading as they met hers but she didn’t understand why. An unfamiliar feeling started to claw its way through her body, starting in the pit of her stomach and working its way upwards. The General cleared her throat and leaned forward into Clara’s peripheral vision.

“The Valeyard,” she stated, raising a kindly eyebrow to soften the blow, “is borne from the Doctor himself.”

“Hang on, what?” Clara shook her head, sure she’d misunderstood. “My Doctor?” She looked over to the Time Lord in question as he shuffled worriedly, gnawing on a thumbnail.

“We learned some time ago that the Valeyard would emerge from the Doctor’s subconscious at a point between his twelfth and final regeneration, at a moment when the Doctor’s strength was at its lowest. The Valeyard _is_ the Doctor: a physical manifestation of all his...darker qualities.”

Clara felt herself smile disbelievingly. She couldn’t help but stand up now, pushing the heavy chair away as she turned to face the man she’d come to trust more than anyone else. The scrape of the wooden legs on the marble floor cut through the anticipatory silence.  “Wait.” she said, holding out a hand when it looked like the elderly Time Lady at the other end of the table was about to interrupt. “You’re telling me that the man I met in the TARDIS is _you_?” She fixed the Doctor with a fierce stare, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You, but...what? Your evil twin?”

He looked so defeated. “I’m sorry,” he started to say, “I never meant to -”

Everyone in the High Council chamber jumped as Clara suddenly let out a loud, short laugh. “No, I’m sorry,” she spluttered, trying to reign in what she knew was an inappropriate grin, “but that is the biggest load of bollocks I have ever heard.”

* * *

The security archives of the Citadel were well lit and left few shadows for them to hide in. Ashildr waited as Anahson tracked the future movements of the guards protecting the room. She noticed the younger woman held her fingers to the inhibitor still embedded in her temple, using the metal disk almost as a talisman to channel her abilities. They were tucked into an alcove just out of sight of the checkpoint, leaning against a door that she prayed wouldn’t suddenly be opened from the other side.

They had managed to trace the source of the message to a console within the room beyond and Ashildr was keen to learn exactly how Rassilon and the Valeyard were connected. She was beginning to get the impression that they had been kept away from Clara and the Doctor on purpose; when she’d tried to find Clara the morning after discovering the message, when her friend hadn’t returned to the living quarters, she and Anahson had been prevented from getting access to the Zero Room, the guard on duty telling them that the restoration of the Doctor’s memories was too delicate a process to allow observers.

It wasn’t necessarily that she didn’t believe them,  more that it seemed a little too convenient.

Ashildr risked a glance down the other end of the marble-floored corridor. A lift hummed in the distance. Their time was growing short. She suspected the guards were due to do a lap of the corridor before too much longer, had lingered there the previous day to pay close attention to their patterns. Their patrols had been run like clockwork and they would only have the narrowest of margins to try to slip through and get the missing piece of the data they needed: the name of the Time Lord who was privy to Rassilon’s apparent deal.

“What’s taking them so long?” She hissed to the Janus at her side.

“It’s -” Anahson broke off with a gasp. Her sight had been out of focus as she had tried to decipher the men’s futures but now her eyes snapped back to Ashildr’s. “They don’t have futures,” she whispered, grabbing hold of the other woman’s arm.

“They what?”

“They’re going to die.” Anahson dashed out from the doorway, dragging Ashildr with her. They sprinted towards the guards who raised their weapons in surprise.

“Halt!” The guards looked astonished as the two women skidded to a stop in front of them. Anahson paused, unsure what to say. Belatedly, she realised that acting on impulse wasn’t really going to work in this situation: their futures were set.

“What is the meaning of this?” The younger guard demanded. “This is a restricted area. Please, return to your quarters.”

Anahson went to speak but stopped as she noticed Ashildr shake her head.

“There’s nothing you can say to them, Anahson,” the other woman intoned gravely, “you can’t stop this from happening. ”

“We need your help,” Anahson tried, “you have to let us into the archive, now.”

The guards looked at each other, perplexed. “Why would we do that?” asked the other guard, holding his gun close to his chest as though he could sense that something was not quite right. The younger guard playfully nudged his colleague in amusement.

“You’re about to be killed. Not by us. By your own troops.” Anahson was almost stumbling over her words in her rush to get them out. Ashildr heard the noise of the lift behind them again and whipped her head around to face the sound. Sure enough, the marching boots echoed down the hall, drawing closer.

“I’m Janus,” Anahson continued, “you know about my abilities. I’m telling you the truth. You don’t regenerate, you’re not Time Lords. But you can do this one last thing; you can help us and your deaths will serve a purpose. We’ll make sure they pay.”

A shout rang out as a squadron of five Citadel guards approached, striding menacingly towards them. The two security guards exchanged a look and stepped around Ashildr and Anahson, shielding them.

“Hand the trespassers over to us,” the leader of the new unit, a swarthy man wearing a uniform of a darker shade of scarlet, called out, “in the name of Rassilon, the true Lord President of Gallifrey.”

* * *

The General rose to her feet as the room erupted into indignant chatter. Clara felt a little rush of satisfaction at causing such a reaction but it quickly evaporated when she saw the look on the Doctor’s face. _He actually believes it._ _He believes the Valeyard is part of him._

“Miss Oswald,” the General began, ripping her attention away from the Doctor, “I don’t wish to offend you, but -”

“Then don’t,” Clara interrupted abruptly. “Who the hell made you believe the Doctor is the Valeyard? Who came to this genius conclusion?”

“Why are you so convinced it isn’t true?” the elderly Time Lady boomed. “Is it due to your vast understanding of Gallifreyan genetics or your intimate knowledge of non-linear temporal paradoxes?”

“There’s no need to be rude, Meryllda,” the Doctor snapped, “it’s a lot for any of us to take in, never mind a human.”

Clara glared at him. “Not really helping, Doctor.”

“The fact of the matter,” the General cut in, “is the Valeyard is back. We don’t have time for the luxury of an existential debate. Doctor, you should also be aware there is a new prophecy.”

Finally looking a shade less terrified, the Doctor ran a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. “Another one? What have you been feeding the Wraith while I’ve been away?”

The General pressed a button embedded in the desk in front of her and the ghostly voices of the Wraith filled the room. Even Councillor Lonkath’s sombre expression held an element of fear: _‘The prodigal son is lost forever, the time of darkness approaches. When all that was will never be and all that never was encroaches.’_

As the prophecy played out, Clara moved to stand next to the Doctor, studying his features for a sign that he would be able to figure this all out, that he would be able to cope. What she saw was not reassuring.

“There’s also this,” the General continued, reluctantly. Pressing the button in front of her again, she activated a hologrammatic video that played out in the centre of the table. Clara was surprised to see a familiar tower block on a grey, autumnal day. She felt the Doctor start next to her, knowing he had recognised it too.

“That’s my flat!” She exclaimed, eyes widening as she watched the image. A dark cloud was parted by a beam of energy as it cut through the sky, directly hitting the window she instinctively knew was her bedroom. The building erupted into flame, a fireball whooshing through the old, crumbling concrete. Without thinking, Clara grabbed the Doctor’s hand and held on tight. _Her neighbours;_   _families, children_ …

“As you can see, the Valeyard’s plan seems to be obvious,” Lonkath declared, clearing his throat. “I assume you recognise the target?”

The Doctor was suddenly very, very still.

“He’s going to try to rupture time,” he finally said. His voice was low and as dangerous as Clara had ever heard it. “He’s going to rip through our timestream and tear it all apart.”

“ _Our_ timestream?” Clara asked, not sure she wanted an answer. She could feel Lonkath’s stare boring into the space where their hands were joined. If she were still alive, Clara knew her palm would be sweating.

“Yours and mine,” the Doctor confirmed. “We’re interlinked; from my childhood to this very second.”

“And thus, the prophecies of the Hybrid and of the Valeyard join as one,” Lonkath shook his head with a slow, building fury, “and all of time will suffer the cost.”

Clara stared at the Doctor, at the General, at the deadly serious faces of the Time Lords and Ladies sat around the table. She saw the soldiers at the sides of the room make a small movement, as one, raising their weapons ever so minutely. She felt the sudden urge to stand behind the Doctor but she stood her ground.

“We’ll take the TARDIS immediately,” the Doctor announced with urgency. “We’ll put a stop to this, find the Valeyard and bring him back. Kill him, if needs be. If he’s spanning our timestream he’ll want to focus on our most recent trips, they’ll be easier for him to detect,” he paused for a second. “It’s what I would do.”

The General nodded and began to make her way towards the door but before she could get to the control panel, Councillor Lonkath spoke again.

“General,” he rose to his feet. A tall man, he seemed to dominate the room. “You said yourself and the human had come to an arrangement.”

“But that doesn’t matter now,” Clara said, not even thinking about what she was saying. “Right, General?”

The officer looked torn. She turned to face Lonkath, back ramrod straight. “Councillor, with respect, I think Miss Oswald is best placed to help the Doctor with his mission.”

“What arrangement?” the Doctor asked, looking down at Clara curiously.

“You know,” she replied softly, “you must know.” He frowned at her and she swore internally. For a genius, he could sometimes be dense. “In exchange for them bringing you back, I promised to go back to the Extraction Chamber. To Trap Street.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s okay,” she said to him, smiling a half smile, “because we seem to have already damaged the whole of time. The prophecy has come to pass; surely we can’t make it any worse.” She turned to address the room, focusing on the General and Lonkath in particular. “Give us a chance to put it right. Trap Street will still be waiting for me. I will honour my end of the deal, General. Just…” her voice was doing that weird thing again that it shouldn’t have been able to do, croaking under the weight of her emotions. “Just don’t make him go through this alone.”

Clara steadfastly refused to look across at the Doctor at that moment, even though she could tell he was watching her intently. That was why, as it happened, she had a front row seat for what came next.

With a nod so small it almost didn’t exist, Councillor Lonkath signalled to the soldiers lining the room. Their dark scarlet uniforms blurred into action as, in one movement, as though they were one entity, the guards disarmed the General and kicked her knees out from under her. She fell heavily to the floor with a cry.

The rest of the guards levelled their weapons at the heads of the other Council members and Clara had to hold the Doctor back to stop him from surging forwards to place himself between the weapons and the unarmed Time Lords. Lonkath reached into his robes and pulled out a device Clara had seen before: a particle disintegrator, the type favoured by Missy.

“Enough of this,” Lonkath drawled, nostrils flaring. “Miss Oswald, you will fulfill your promise to the High Council of Gallifrey. You will return to the point of your death and you will do so now. I would rather you came willingly…”

He tilted his head and gave a slow smile that was reserved purely for the Doctor.

“Actually, I couldn’t care less. Guards!” Three of the guards who were without hostages stepped forwards, squinting down the sights of their weapons, keeping the two of them in the cross-hairs. “Take her to the Extraction Chamber and, once you’ve returned her to her timestream, lock off that section of time. Forever.”

Lonkath held the particle disintegrator on the Doctor, unwavering, as two sets of strong hands reached out, grabbed hold of Clara’s wrist and arm and began to frogmarch her towards the door.

* * *

 


	8. Fragments

_“The tide drops before the surge,_

_Bonded in his words,_

_Everything is terrible,_

_Unsettled._

_The earth trembles,_

_Splinters into fragments.”_

Border Crossing - B. Dolan

* * *

In a forgotten corner of an insignificant galaxy, there was a small moon. It orbited an impressive gas giant, almost incidentally. Unpopulated, nothing could grow amidst the sodden mud of its sprawling land masses save for clumps of hardy weeds which, as time passed and eons faded, barely evolved at all. At its poles, tundra stretched out relentlessly until they merged with the bleak, grey horizon.

Ages rose and fell; the moon remained.

It rotated reluctantly on its axis, elliptically swept through its carefully choreographed dance in the vacuum of space without majesty or fanfare. Clouds lazily chased across its dense atmosphere, unobserved. It rained and they cleared, only to gather all over again. Unremarkable. But even unremarkable things and places can become significant eventually - given time - and this satellite was no exception to that particular, inevitable quirk of history.

The ground under the quagmire quaked uncertainly, as though the land itself had grown so unaccustomed to excitement that it was was not prepared even for a seismic event. The insects who called the weeds home scurried fruitlessly, as though there was somewhere else to go to escape the trembling. But they needn’t have worried; as suddenly as the disruption had begun, it subsided and the moon was still once more. The only indication that there was anything wrong was a small speck that hovered in the air, about seven feet above the mud. If there had been anyone there to witness it, they wouldn’t have looked at it twice, no doubt blaming the sight on a trick of the mind or too tired eyes.

It was a pinprick of light, not large enough to be accurately described. Something within it, however, pulsed and surged, bristling with energy. A sliver of time, an anomaly.

An aberration.

And, just like that, everything about that small, inconsequential moon changed. At that precise moment, in that exact location, it became the origin of every chilling, cautionary tale that had ever been told. It became a warning: spanning the vast expanse of creation, intimately intertwining its influence from the inception to the very destruction of all things.

Meanwhile, among the tough grass, the insects busied themselves as though nothing at all had happened.

* * *

A deadly quiet filled the High Council chamber as firm hands wrestled Clara away from the Doctor’s side and towards the door. Councillor Lonkath's hair-filled nostrils flared impressively as he held the particle disintegrator aloft, thumb hovering to activate it at the slightest movement from the horrified man in front of him. The Doctor's eyes were wide and darting as he weighed up his options; he wouldn't put it past Lonkath to use the disintegrator on him, Clara and the General if he made any sudden move, and not necessarily in that order. His hands curled into tight fists, held impotently at his side. Tension gnarled through his knotted forearms, every instinct screaming to tear them all apart for the sheer brazen cheek of this betrayal. Clara and her captors were close to the door. He saw a flash of woeful brown eyes as she met his gaze over her shoulder and fury blazed painfully through his chest.

 _This is not fair_. The thought screamed around his brain, repeating and rising in volume. Briefly, he had a flash of Clara in the new TARDIS they'd tried to escape in before; he imagined her telling him that nothing was fair, nothing was guaranteed and the universe didn't owe them. Although he knew in some corner of his rational mind that this was true, that he couldn't, _shouldn’t_ bend events to his wishes just to keep her with him - acting like that had hardly done him any favours so far, had it? - the freshness of his newly discovered memories made his mind whirl dizzily. He was full of her.

"Doctor," she called, bringing him back into the room. He knew his face was blank, bewildered. He could recognise the minute contractions of his facial muscles as being the same as those he'd made when they had learned her chronolock could not be removed. She pulled against the guards momentarily. "I'll come with you, I won't put up a fight," she told them, "just -"

"No 'just'," Lonkath barked. "This pitiful charade ends now. If the General is incapable of action herself, you will find there are many of us on Gallifrey who still respect order..."

A flash of red light cut him short. It hit his right ear and spread across his expansive, flushed face as his jaw dropped open in shock. A second electric shrill rang out and the guards holding Clara in place dropped her arms, spinning around to face the source of the noise. The female guard who had been stood restraining the General slumped into a heap on the ground, her armour clanking loudly as a groan escaped her lips.

The Doctor surged forward, eyebrows furrowed as the guards either side of Clara raised their weapons. "Don't even think about it," he growled, grabbing hold of Clara's wrist with a steel-like grip and dragging her back to his side. He moved them to the opposite side of the table, situating himself in between the guards and Clara as the General rose to her feet, levelling a small but effective-looking weapon at Lonkath’s co-conspirators.

"Not quite incapable, Lonkath," the General announced ruefully as she took in the Councillor's hunched over form, half in his seat, half sprawled across the table. The particle disintegrator clattered to the floor. The other members of the High Council finally came to life, pushing back from their seats as though in delayed shock.

The General nodded to the Doctor. "Ankle holster," she explained, her arm unwavering as she covered the guards in the room. They seemed unwilling to test her resolve. “After our last encounter, I decided to give myself a back up plan. Can’t be too careful on your eleventh regeneration, can you?”

The Doctor’s face twitched, still too tense to be relieved.

"What on earth is the meaning of this?" demanded Councillor Meryllda, pulling her robes around herself protectively. She rounded on the guards who were still positioned behind the council members. “Lower your weapons, immediately!” Without Lonkath for guidance, they reluctantly did as they were told. “Never in all my regenerations have I experienced such treatment -”

“Oh come off it, Meryllda,” snorted the Doctor, recovering himself a little. “There’s a backstabbing every couple of weeks amongst the High Council. This is hardly a surprise.” Clara stepped forward, curious.

“Is he…?” She indicated to Lonkath, “I mean, he’s not regenerating.”

“Stunned,” the General supplied.

“Another upgrade?” The Doctor guessed before dismissing the Councillor with a wave of his hand. The General made her way round to Lonkath’s side and picked up the particle disintegrator, examining it closely.

“I wonder where he got this from?” She asked as she sequestered it within her uniform.

“Probably the same place he got these goons,” the Doctor sneered, gesturing at the guards who were still on edge at the other side of the room. “I want them out of the Chamber, and as far away from me as possible. Now.”

The General paused, taking a moment to look around the faces of the other High Council members. With Lonkath out of commission, Meryllda was the most senior Time Lady present. “Councillor Meryllda?” She ignored the Doctor as he rolled his eyes at her ingrained respect for the chain of command. Meryllda straightened her spine and regarded the Doctor and Clara. She cleared her throat delicately.

“Doctor, Miss Oswald,” she began, trying to not hesitate too much as the Doctor’s fierce blue eyes swung in her direction, “allow me to apologise for this...unpleasantness. Councillor Lonkath was clearly acting without the knowledge of the High Council.”

“Says who?” The Doctor felt Clara place a warning hand on his elbow. He tried his best to reign in his anger but he knew Meryllda’s decision was already a foregone conclusion.

“That said, however wrong-headed this action… Miss Oswald, I fear you must return to the extraction chamber as soon as possible in order to minimise the damage -”

“The damage to Time, I get it,” Clara said, “I really do. And I am more than happy to go back to Trap Street when I need to but there’s something you’re not quite getting: I’ve been travelling around in my own TARDIS for over a year. I’ve been time-locked, out there in the universe and time hasn’t crumbled.”

“Yet as soon as you and the Doctor crossed paths again, the Valeyard emerged,” Meryllda argued. “I’m sorry, Miss Oswald, but I can really see no alternative.”

Clara opened her mouth to respond but clamped it shut when the Doctor spoke up. “Can we have some privacy?” He asked Meryllda, nodding towards the others in the room, “Clara and I need to discuss this.”

“Doctor?” Clara frowned. What was he playing at?

“Nice try, Doctor,” Meryllda smiled, appreciating the attempt at subterfuge. “Miss Oswald, I would ask that you kindly accompany the General. We are grateful for everything you have done for us. Your sacrifice shall never be forgotten.”

The Doctor ran a nervous hand through his hair as he caught the General’s indecision. He squinted at her as she turned to face Meryllda. “Councillor, I think we can afford them a few minutes to say goodbye,” she paused, thinking, “but no, Doctor, we’re not quite stupid enough to give you the opportunity to run away, again.” She walked over to the doors separating the Council chamber from the balcony and swiped her hand over the access control.

The Doctor watched closely as the General turned to him and indicated the balcony with a slight tilt of her head. Her eyes twinkled a little and he felt himself give a minute nod in response. The General looked over to where Meryllda stood.

“With your permission, Councillor? Just a few moments?”

“Very well,” Meryllda relented, clasping her hands firmly together behind her back.

The Doctor nodded. “Thank you,” he looked the General directly, “thank you.”

He could feel Clara’s reluctance under the palm of his hand as he guided her through the doors and onto the balcony. As he passed the General he muttered quietly, under his breath, “Find out what Lonkath knows.”

Clara stood before him, the light breeze ruffling a few stray strands of her hair. He risked a glance back into the room, saw the General turn her back and guard the door. The other Citadel guards looked as though they were in the process of getting a good dressing down on how ‘following orders’ was hardly a defence for attacking unarmed members of the Gallifreyan elite. He smiled a bitter half smile. _Soldiers_.

“I don’t know what to say,” Clara said, her eyes inflating massively, “We’ve said goodbye so many times…”

“None of them have been goodbye though,” he replied, moving closer to her in a couple of quick strides, “as it turns out. Clara -” Looking out over the Citadel, he changed his mind about what he was going to say and huffed out a tired breath, trying to put the Valeyard and Lonkath out of his mind. One thing at a time. “What do you make of Gallifrey, then?”

She pulled a face and looked away from him, out across the hazy golden towers and beyond the expansive dome to the rugged terrain beyond. The building they were in rose above all the others, making the scale of the Capitol hard to conceive. Even in the sealed atmosphere of the dome, the air felt thinner. “Well, this is a nice view.”

“Very diplomatic,” he smiled at her and felt heartened when she returned it, albeit sadly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand. The size difference between his palm and hers struck him as being briefly ridiculous. Had she always been this small? He frowned, confused.

“Whatever for?”

“Well, at this point,” she blustered, scrunching up her face, “pretty much everything. But mainly, right now, for leaving you to take on the Valeyard alone. For making you go through this again.”

“I won’t be alone,” he replied quickly, with absolute certainty. At the look on her face, he closed the distance between them and pulled her into a tight hug. Instinctively, her arms wrapped around him and something deep inside him marvelled at the fact that she was still there, despite everything.

“Do you trust me, Clara?” He asked in a low voice, directly into her ear.

She tried to look at him but they were too close. “Of course I do,” she responded, almost automatically. “But that’s not the question right now, is it?”

“What is?” He glanced back into the chamber, watched Meryllda keeping an eye on them, discreetly. She was far enough away that there was nothing she, or anyone else, would be able to do. The calculations rushed through his mind as he allowed for a number of variables. It would do, in the absence of any other option. And wasn't that always the way? Cross your fingers, hope for the best. Make an educated guess...

Clara pulled back slightly, staring into his eyes. “The question is: if you think the Valeyard is part of you, do you trust yourself?” The Doctor gave the smallest of shrugs before breaking out into an unexpected, manic grin and hoisting her up off the floor. The startled noise she made almost made him laugh out loud.

“I’ve no idea,” he admitted, striding with her over to the wall surrounding the balcony. “Why don’t we find out?” He took an exaggerated leap up onto the ledge, lifting Clara with him as he tightened his grip on her carefully. “Hold on tight.”

With a quick glance downwards and a whispered mental _geronimo_ that he would absolutely deny if anyone called him on it, the Doctor took a deep breath... and jumped.

* * *

The usually crowded markets were deserted. Baskets and stalls abandoned, upturned and askew. A throng could be heard in the distance, emanating from the gathered inhabitants of the asteroid where they were squeezed as one mass into the arena for the Festival of Offerings. Missy skipped a zig zag down the dirt paved thoroughfare, helped herself to a piece of fruit from an unwatched cart and took a decadent bite, relishing the dribble of juice that worked its way down her chin.

The Valeyard swept ahead, cutting a dark and serious figure as the expanding Old God raged above them. Untroubled by whatever the old coot’s mission was at this particular moment, Missy took the opportunity to marvel at the view. It was destructive, splendidly apocalyptic. The sky was consumed with mingling oranges and yellows, a dusky red at the outer reaches. The unmistakable dark, angry face of a spurned god, or grandfather, or whatever stupid name these sun-singers had ignorantly chosen for their parasitical overlord emerged from the swirling colours. It looked a little miffed to say the least, and Missy cackled delightedly.

* * *

Gastron sank into a protective crouch as he neared the two fallen Citadel guards sprawled on the floor in front of the Security Archive. Out of habit more than any doubt, he pressed his fingers to the youngest one's throat. He hung his head. Bringing his weapon round in a practiced arc, he scanned the area. It all seemed quiet, the stillness emanating from the walls unsettled him more than a commotion would have.

He reached for his communicator and thumbed it on. "General? Come in, General." He waited for a moment, noticing the Archive seemed to be on lockdown. Frowning, he moved towards the door. "Ishtan and Byner are dead," he reported, an itching sensation settling in deep under his armour at the lack of response. "I think the Security Archive has been breached. Going in to investigate."

Walking carefully up to the entrance of the Archive, Gastron squinted into the retinal scan and entered his override code by placing his hand into a small opening and pressing the required sequence on the buttons hidden within. If the Archive was in lockdown, establishing the protective measure will have been one of the last things that Ishtan or Byner did. Sure enough, he could see a thin trickle of blood leading to a smudge just under the console. If he'd been less on edge, he would have closed his eyes in sympathy. They had been good men. Honest, hard working. Fathers, both.

Checking back down the corridor furtively, he waited as the door gradually lifted to reveal the dimly lit atrium beyond. Quickly, he slipped under the door and closed it behind him, hesitating only slightly at sealing his only means of exit; he didn't especially want anyone sneaking up on him while he searched the vicinity. The lights flickered on as he entered the main foyer. He stood bristling with restrained adrenaline, listening intently. There was no sign of life, save for the hum of the power generator and, if he paid especially close attention, the whir of the data banks as they automatically updated.

Methodically, Gastron started to make his way up and down the aisles of the Archive, turning between the polished white columns that contained the nerve centre of the Citadel’s communications array. He cleared each one in turn, leaving no nook or cranny to chance. One of the consoles looked as though it had recently been accessed and he paused as he took in a flashing orange light amidst the sheer glass display. A data drive was stuck into the console and, evidently, some information was being downloaded. A shadow shifted behind him and he swung around, off balance.

“It’s okay,” it was Lady Me, and the Janus who had accompanied the Doctor in the TARDIS. He didn’t relax, scanning their weary, frightened faces and looking behind them for any sign of impending attack. “It wasn’t us,” Lady Me continued, holding her hands up to demonstrate they didn’t carry any weapons, “the guards out there, they saved us. From your own soldiers.”

“We’re telling the truth,” Anahson added, “you know we are. We wouldn’t have been able to lockdown the Archive. Even the other lot couldn’t get past the checkpoint once we were shut in here.”

Gastron frowned. They had a point, only his rank and above had access. “Who did this, then? And why were you even in this section?”

“I don’t know who they were,” Ashildr admitted, “they said they were acting in the name of Rassilon.”

“Rassilon?” Gastron settled his weapon against his chest, removing his finger from the trigger guard. His mind raced and he considered trying his communicator again. Why wasn’t the General responding?

“They were quite insistent he was the ‘true Lord President’,” Ashildr told him. “Seems like there are some factions on Gallifrey who aren’t particularly keen to see the Doctor again. I suppose you can hardly blame them, since last time he was here he deposed the entire High Council, exiled your leader, broke one of the cardinal rules of your people, then stole another TARDIS and ran away again. Hardly a coherent exit strategy, was it?”

“Rassilon was mad,” Gastron reasoned, slowly. He got the distinct impression he was being tested. “He had to be stopped. What are you downloading?” He jerked his gun towards the data drive to demonstrate that they hadn’t succeeded in distracting him.

“...It’s a series of communications,” Anahson said, “between Rassilon and a Councillor Lonkath. They’re heavily encrypted but we think they’re to do with the Valeyard.”

“Lonkath?” Gastron asked, sharply. He thumbed on his communicator again and spoke into it: “General? General, come in.”

“What is it?” Ashildr asked, stepping forward and, as the orange light flashed green, removed the data drive from the array and handed it over to Anahson.

“Lonkath is the one who sent me down here. Miss Oswald was asking after you and they sent me to investigate, but now I can’t raise the General on the radio. She and Lonkath were briefing the Doctor and Clara. But if Lonkath is still loyal to Rassilon...” he took a deep breath. “What did the others look like? The ones who killed Ishtan and Byner?”

“Citadel Guards, full uniform,” Ashildr replied, “maybe a little darker than yours? What do you mean you can’t get in touch with anyone?” She looked at Anahson, who stared back worriedly. Gastron blanched a little. Chancellery Guards were fiercely loyal to the Castellan, Lonkath would essentially have his own private army. If the Houses rose up against the Doctor, especially with the added complication of the Valeyard undermining his credibility, there was a chance of an all out civil war. And when Time Lords did war, they didn’t really hold back.

“We need to get to the TARDIS,” Anahson said, “we’ll be safe there, then we can work out how to contact the Doctor. I don’t like any of this one bit. The ones who attacked us can’t have been acting alone. They didn’t even hide the bodies.”

“I fear you may be right,” Gastron reluctantly agreed, “but the TARDIS would be the first place I’d stake out in the hopes of stopping you from getting away.”

Ashildr sighed heavily and looked around as though hoping another solution would materialise out of thin air. Gastron knew the feeling. He also knew it wasn’t going to happen; this was the only option they had. He pushed through them and headed back towards the door. “You’ve got everything you need, yes?” He asked, signalling them to follow him with a flick of his wrist. Anahson shoved the data drive into her pocket.

“I think so,” Ashildr said, her tone turning hopeful. “It was too easy to download, I should have known Gallifreyan encryption would be impossible to crack. But maybe the TARDIS can translate it, or the Doctor, if he’s still -” She trailed off with a quick glance to Anahson. “He recovered his memories, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Gastron smiled. “The Doctor’s back.” Ashildr grasped Anahson on the elbow and they both looked like a weight had been lifted. Finally, some good news. “I’ll help you get to the TARDIS,” Gastron continued, “if our own forces are split, I might be able to persuade them to let you go. If not...” He lifted his weapon so it rested comfortably against his shoulder, straightened his spine and channeled his growing sense of discomfort outwards.

Gastron’s vision sharpened, his senses on a knife point as he unlocked the door to the Security Archive. He stepped over the threshold, scouring the corridor beyond for any sign of the Chancellery Elites. The two women followed closely behind. Their breathing echoed off the high, polished walls as they maintained a tight formation. He stopped, waited. Eventually, Gastron nodded to Ashildr and Anahson. “Follow me,” he whispered as he led them in the direction of the workshops and head first into whatever ambush awaited.

* * *

She caught up with her reluctant companion as he shoved his way through to the rear of the arena. From her vantage point - well, sporadically appearing between the rows upon rows of different species obscuring her view, and then only if she craned her neck at a painful angle, they really were in the cheap seats - Missy was able to spot Clara Oswald, longer hair, new and shiny from the look of it, stood with a smaller biped. Robes, blonde hair. Local. Then, the interminable singing started and Missy rolled her eyes. This was hardly the chaos she’d had in mind when she’d decided to play along with whatever the Valeyard was planning. Wagner’s full Ring Cycle in one sitting with no bathroom breaks would have been preferable to this saccharine chorus.

The Valeyard was busy next to her, pulling a small, rectangular device from his pocket. A box? A circuit board? She didn’t recognise its purpose but the design was distinctly Gallifreyan. He noticed her attention and looked at her piercingly until she returned her gaze to the spectacle overhead.

The orange mass above them retracted for a moment, only to expand again, burning with increasing ferocity, obliterating the blackness that had surrounded it. At this rate, it was going to consume the entire sorry rock and, as the singing carried on and she forced her fingers into her ears, Missy almost hoped that it would. With a tilt of her head, she watched as Clara Oswald ran to a nearby scooter and whizzed away. _How dramatic._ Somewhere, down there, she could sense the Doctor was interfering. But what did the Valeyard want? Why were they just observing like the rest of the gawpers? As the singing finally ceased, she pulled another piece of ill-gotten fruit out of her pocket and chomped into it noisily, drawing irritated glances from the terrified audience members nearby.

* * *

They were still falling. That was the first thing that Clara noticed when she managed to prise one eye open, having scrunched them both shut when they’d first started to plummet. Her legs had automatically wrapped themselves around the Doctor’s hips and she gripped on for dear life.

“Oh my god!” She shouted, against the rushing wind flying through her hair, hoping it her voice would carry into his stupid, idiotic brain, “Would it have killed you to tell me your plan?”

He gave a grunt. “Can you stop wriggling?” With as delicate a quirk of an eyebrow as she could manage while falling at what felt like terminal velocity, Clara shifted again and stifled a laugh as he muttered something she couldn’t quite make out. Turning her head out from where it was nestled in the crook of his neck, she risked a glance downwards and slammed her eyes shut again. They were still a long way up, descending rapidly.

“You looked down, didn’t you?” Came his voice, half of what he was saying whipped away and over her shoulder, echoing off the bronze building behind them. A couple of windows whizzed by, blink and you’ll miss them fast.

“Do I need to,” she tightened her arms around his neck a fraction, “y’know, pull a cord or something?”

“A what?”

“A cord! Like a parachute?”

He twisted his neck at an odd angle to look at her as though she was talking nonsense. “You dressed me earlier, did you _see_ a parachute? Really, Clara. Should I be offended you weren’t paying attention?”

“Shut up.” She relaxed her grip a little since he didn’t seem unduly worried about their imminent appointment with gravity. In fact, she realised, shifting again slightly, they seemed to be slowing down into a controlled descent. It felt strange, as though some force was guiding them.

“Inertial damper,” he explained, re-positioning his hands to the back of her thighs to account for her change in position. “Should land us smoothly on the ground, assuming it can cope with our combined weight. It was originally installed in case someone dropped a sonic spanner or something from the top; Time Lord health and safety gone mad.”

“Should?” Clara bit her lip, a little distracted. “Also, don’t think I didn’t just hear that dig about my weight, Mister.” The wind had lessened to a bearable breeze now, and she saw they were finally more than half way down. Experimentally, she shuffled away from him, disentangling her legs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked, gruffly.

“It’s not every day I get to fly,” she grinned, slipping down until her feet reached his. She grabbed hold of his hand and he helped her to turn so they were side by side. “I want to see the view from here.” She wobbled slightly but felt the damper adjust to the distribution of her weight and steadied herself against him.

The sun was beginning to set, casting the sky in a brilliant russet. Reflected rays mirrored a golden hue from the taller spires, whilst others beneath were cast into dark blue shadow. The slow updraft that passed between them had warmed considerably. Clara stared down at their feet and noted how small they seemed as the roofs of buildings on the lower levels of the Capitol drew closer. She looked up at the Doctor, who was watching her quietly.

“Do you want to do a  -” He indicated a roll with his finger and she felt her eyebrows climb to her hairline.

“God, yes,” she responded as he adjusted his grip on her hand to help her. She leaned backwards, tipping her head back as far as it would go, tucking her knees into her chest until the world flipped on its axis. Despite everything they were running from, and everything that was no doubt to come, she allowed this moment to flood her with joy. As she righted herself, she stood closer to him, smiling widely.

“Okay,” he warned, “Get ready to land. Hold on.”

The ground rose up to meet them as he placed a firm arm around her waist. They touched down into the dirt so lightly, Clara couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. The Doctor smiled, straightening his jacket as she tucked her hair behind her ears.

“That was cool,” she said, “if it weren’t for the room full of people wanting to kill me forever, I’d ask if we could go back up and do it again.” She smacked him one in the shoulder. “That’s for not telling me we were going to jump off the building, by the way.”

“You would have argued with me if I’d told you! I didn’t want to give the game away. Thank goodness the General seems to be less addle-minded than the rest of them,” he was rubbing his shoulder dramatically but stopped when he noticed her tilt her head to the side a little, purse her lips and regard him fondly.

“You know I’d follow you anywhere.” She watched as he stared back at her, mouth moving as though he was trying to process the right thing to say. His expression darkened a shade, his gaze serious.

“Same,” he said.

Sometimes, thought Clara, he just gets it absolutely right.

The Doctor scratched uncomfortably behind his ear and she looked away from him to give him a chance to recover. “I’m glad you said that actually,” he carried on, sounding more confident, “because the next part of my cunning plan may involve a slightly spooky disused underground network of tunnels.” He scampered a few steps ahead of them and kicked away some sand and dirt covering what looked like a large, square manhole cover. Holding his arms out in a bemused flourish, he looked back over to her. “Ta dah,” he finished, lamely.

With a shake of her head and a quick, nervous glance up to the dizzying height they’d just fallen, Clara walked over to him and put her hands on her hips as he twisted a small wheel embedded into the metal and the grate creaked dustily open. From his crouch, he squinted up at her. “Ladies first?” She raised an eyebrow. “No? No. I didn’t think so.”

With a determined set to his jaw, the Doctor stared down into the opening for a moment before beginning to descend the narrow, rusty staircase. He shuddered as the darkness enveloped him, a chill creeping across his skin that had nothing at all to do with the mild evening air. These rickety steps would lead them away from the Citadel, from the Time Lords, away from Gallifrey itself and, inevitably, inexorably, towards the Valeyard and a truth the Doctor wasn’t sure he was ready to face.  Behind him, he heard Clara begin her own descent as she willingly followed him into the shadows.

* * *

Missy chewed around her mouthful of Plebusian hankerfruit thoughtfully, considering slipping away in the TARDIS and heading back to Gallifrey to tell the High Council that the Valeyard had apparently emerged after all this time purely for a sightseeing trip and there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Really, it was all fairly boring and tame. No need for a big flap about the end of the universe or any related nonsense.

It was just a shame they wouldn’t believe her.

Before long, the swirling mass of the gaseous parasite seemed distracted, fearful almost. It reached out tendrils of energy, grabbed onto something no one could make out and, in a burst of light, the Old God seemed to miserably implode, casting the arena into darkness. Missy could make out the stars again and a relieved hush descended over the crowds. Next to her, the Valeyard grunted as though he had caught something thrown towards him at great speed. Watching covertly, Missy saw him snap the small box shut, holding it against his chest protectively, but not before she caught a glimpse of residual golden energy, one of the tendrils from the Old God, curling and waving from within.

 _Well_ , _perhaps we’re not just killing time after all,_ she mused.

One of the beings next to her, a tall cyclops wearing a luminescent respirator, asked her what had happened; he’d missed the finale. Part of the issue was probably his lack of depth perception, he admitted with a rueful grin. Missy took her opportunity. Checking to make sure the Valeyard could not overhear and, with a dramatic gesture for the sheer pantomime of the whole thing, she leaned in and pressed her lips roughly to where she suspected the Cyclops’ ear might be, whispering two words of explanation. The Cyclops’ eye widened and he nodded, sagely.

Those two words, as simple as they were, would eventually catch on the winds of gossip, rising and spreading beyond the sun-singers to the stars themselves, being repeated so often across time and space that they would lose all meaning and take on a significance of their own, far beyond anything that words alone could achieve.

One whispered explanation as to why the Old God was no more. One explanation. Two words. A single, timeless prophecy.

 _‘The Hybrid’_.

* * *

The odds of this going smoothly, Anahson acknowledged sadly, were incredibly slim. If she hadn’t been soundly banned from gambling ever, _ever_ again by the Doctor after that ill-fated visit to New Las Vegas, she would have put money on it.

They hovered on the furthest outskirts of the Workshop as Gastron surveyed the area. The TARDIS shone invitingly at the other side of the wide, empty room but she didn’t need any psychic ability at all to realise it was a ploy. Ashildr was tightly wound at her side, ready for the slightest sign of trouble. Her own breath was stuttering, forcing its way through her nostrils at what seemed to her the volume of a jet propulsion system.

Ashildr could practically be heard thinking. From her position in the shadows she rolled up her sleeves, flexing her arms decisively. “So, on three or something?” She whispered, hardly keen to spring the trap but not inclined to sit there waiting to be ambushed either. She looked to Gastron as he tried to weigh up their route.

“And you can’t see anything?” he asked Anahson. She shook her head.

“Just us and the TARDIS. No other time signatures.”

“Okay then,” Gastron said. “On the count of three…”

Anahson pushed herself onto the tips of her toes. “One,” she began.

“Two,” Ashildr tensed next to her, took a deep breath and held it.

“Three -” Gastron leaped forward in a sprint but was brought to an abrupt halt as the Elites suddenly phased into the room, appearing in a flash of white light, their weapons at the ready. Gastron held up his hand, stopped the progress of Ashildr and Anahson behind him. He wished he could say he was surprised. “Put down your weapons,” he ordered, hoping he sounded a lot more confident that he felt.

“We don’t take our orders from you, Major,” responded the central figure. As he stepped forward, Gastron had a glimmer of recognition. Maytal, a Captain in the Chancellery Guard.

“Then who do you take them from, if not a superior officer?” Gastron barked, “That fool Lonkath or is Rassilon himself still pulling the strings?”

“Rassilon is the true Lord President,” Maytal bit back, “more so than the Doctor, who would rather risk the Universe than give up his precious pet.”

Ashildr didn’t like where this was heading. She stepped forward. “Clara Oswald will return to the extraction chamber, it has already been arranged. There’s no need for any more bloodshed. Which you would know if you’d perhaps tried asking questions before shooting your comrades.”

Maytal looked to the two soldiers either side of him. One of them shook his head minutely. “Then why,” asked Maytal pointedly, “is he at this very moment  attempting to escape with her? Again.”

This was news to Ashildr but she tried to not let that show on her face, carefully maintaining an almost disinterested mask. She saw the muscle in Gastron’s forearm tense, knowing he was ready to strike at the slightest change to this stand-off. Vaguely, she hoped the Doctor and Clara hadn’t done anything stupid. Or reckless. And then she sighed internally. _Of course they had_.

“We’ve only got your word for that,” Anahson chimed, showing a little bit more faith than Ashildr was currently able. “Why isn’t the General responding on the radio?”

“Did Ishtan and Byner really need to die?” Gastron snapped, as though he’d already made his mind up about who and what these Elites were. Where their priorities lay. Whatever response the men were about to give was lost when a disembodied voice echoed around the room. It was the General.

“ _All guards currently under orders from Councillor Lonkath are to desist their actions immediately and report to myself in the High Council Chambers. Any failure to comply with this request will be met with severe reprimand. Repeat: all Citadel guards currently enacting orders from Councillor Lonkath are to return to the High Council Chambers immediately.”_

“You heard the General,” Gastron said, after a relieved pause. “Do as she says or I will be forced to take action.”

Ashildr raised an eyebrow to Anahson, hoping she’d get the hint. In a practiced move the young Janus raised her fingers to her temple and pressed against her inhibitor. For some reason, the addition of the metal disk was improving the effectiveness of her abilities. If she ever got a moment to spare when they weren’t in mortal danger, she wanted to take the time to explore what this meant. She focused. In her mind’s eye she saw the Elites, seconds from now, disregard the General’s orders, splitting up and blasting their weapons indiscriminately. She shouted over the vision, knowing she didn’t have long to relay their movements to Gastron.

“Down!” she yelled, “Three to the left, two to the right!”

Gastron immediately dropped to his knee as a silent signal passed between the Elites and they began to move, as though in slow motion. Ashildr grabbed Anahson’s arm and dragged her to the extreme right, out of harm’s way. Gastron’s blaster surged red light as he whirled it on the others. He hit the closest first, then the man next to him in quick succession but Maytal and the other two were too widely spaced to ensure accuracy and speed; his next shot missed wildly, impacting heavily into the ceiling, sending down a shower of sparks.

“Gastron, roll to the right!” Anahson cried as she and Ashildr sprinted towards the TARDIS. With a yell, Maytal saw them and began to give chase. Gastron rolled tightly, narrowly avoiding a blast as it scorched the floor where he had been kneeling. He let off another shot, stunning the guard who had almost hit him, barely had time to make sure they were unconscious before he was on his feet again. With the butt of his rifle, Gastron charged the fourth guard, smashing them in the face as, suddenly, a bright yellow light emanated from the other side of the room. He shouted out to Anahson and Ashildr as they raced away from him, an incandescent Maytal hot on their heels.

The TARDIS doors had flung themselves open and a burst of energy arced out from the time machine, an angry flare of light that zoomed over their heads as Anahson tackled Ashildr to the ground a split second before it reached them. They hit the deck, winding themselves. Ashildr had to shake her head to clear her vision as she dragged Anahson back to her feet. Risking a glance behind them, she saw Gastron mimic them and dive to the floor. Maytal, however, didn’t have the benefit of foresight, the wave hitting him straight in the chest. He flew through the air but, as he was lifted from his feet, he fired his weapon chaotically in their direction. Anahson had reached the TARDIS and was already through the door but she herself was still a few strides off…

 _Oh dear, this is going to_ \- the heat from the blast struck her left shoulder blade and blossomed down her back.  With a grunt, she stumbled the last few metres and flung herself through the inviting doors of the impatient TARDIS. On her hands and knees, she scrambled further in so the doors could slam shut.

“Thanks for the hand, old girl,” Ashildr groaned, rolling inadvisedly over onto her back and panting through the pain, staring up at the rotors as they churned into life. But, even as her breath caught in her throat and she faded in and out of consciousness, she could feel the Mire device begin to heal her wounds. Anahson’s worried face flickered in and out of her peripheral vision. Ashildr waved her off. “I’m fine,” she muttered crossly as her skin started to knit itchily back together, “stick to the plan.”

In the Workshop, beyond the safety of the impenetrable blue doors, Gastron rested his forehead on the cool floor. Lifting his eyes wearily, he looked around at the blast marks and the guards in differing states of unconsciousness around him. Stiffly, he sat up and rested his gun on the ground. A groan from where Maytal lay, crumpled against the wall caught his attention. Gastron started, hand reaching for his weapon just in case but the unnatural angle of Maytal’s right leg convinced the Major there was no immediate danger.

“We might need to rename your unit, Maytal,” Gastron couldn’t help but gloat, “I’m not sure the ‘Elites’ is particularly accurate.” As the TARDIS engines roared to life and the old ship began to dematerialise, Gastron felt a sense of satisfaction. Whether or not history or the future would remember him favourably, he believed he had done the right thing. The weary soldier thumbed his communicator on, finally, and established a direct link to the General. He smiled when she answered straight away - after all, he’d been the first face her new face had seen, and that meant something.

“Major, it’s good to hear from you,” she said, sounding brusque but softer on the edges than usual. “Report.”

* * *

The splendour of the solar flare reaching out and devouring the overgrown layer of shrubbery on planet Earth was quite something to behold. Their TARDIS… Hang on a minute, _her_ TARDIS - rightfully stolen, thank you very much and that was basically as good as a deed of ownership where sentient, trans-dimensional time machines were concerned - was hidden from proximity alarms and radar by the swirling mass of radiation and the devastating electromagnetic pulse caused by the coronal mass ejection itself. A useful cover, she’d have to remember to use this method again at some point, since she hadn’t even detected herself in the vicinity when she had spied on this event the first time around.

Those were simpler times, Missy decided. When all that was needed for a diabolical plan was every dead body on planet Earth and a little access to Cybercontrol. Not whatever this was. She watched at the Valeyard sequestered the mysterious little box away within the inner pockets of his jacket before he bustled back through the diner, with barely a glimpse at the spectacle surrounding them.

“You know, you should take a picture,” she drawled, running her fingers over the counter, all plastic and chrome. “It’ll last longer than any of the energy you’re trying to harvest.”

After the first few trips: Akhaten, the exploding Orient Express in space, the pathetic withdrawal of the Ice Warrior they had watched perched on an iceberg, and the illicit thrill of being inside the cavernous lobby of the Bank of Karabraxos just out of the Doctor and his little heist team’s sight, Missy had noticed a pattern. The time had come to test her theory.

“If you wanted to know what I was doing, dear Mistress,” the Valeyard sniffed, “you merely had to ask.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She pushed her way into the Console Room, not turning around to see if he had followed. “Not that there’s much fun to be had dancing around their timestream to begin with, like slack-jawed tourists. You could have killed him a thousand times over by now.”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill the Doctor,” he said, smiling thinly, “that would be vulgar.”

He paused as he programmed in the co-ordinates for their next trip, cranking the lever and pulling the final switch with a flourish. “I think you know where we’re going next,” he looked at her with a tilt of his head and, all of a sudden, Missy realised she hadn’t been as clever as she had thought, when she’d interfered earlier. Of course he would have known about it. He laughed and it sickened her, not least because she was now fairly convinced that the Valeyard was going to succeed where she had failed.

* * *

They had been walking in the silence and the dark, save for the dim glow the Doctor was producing from his sonic screwdriver, for some time before Clara finally gave in and asked him about the Valeyard. Given the situation, she thought she had been quite restrained. Now, as she waited for a response, she realised the Doctor was genuinely afraid. The dirt crunched under their feet. The narrow passageway had widened a little and they were able to walk side by side.

“So all that asking me if you were a good man, when you regenerated,” she said carefully, still trying to wrap her head around it all, “that was, what? Because of this?”

“Maybe,” he replied, after a moment. “I knew the twelfth or thirteenth regeneration was around the time he was supposed to emerge, the Master made that much clear at my trial. I just never thought I would _get_ extra regenerations...”

“Hang on. The Master? Missy?”

“Clara…”

“You’re basing all of this on information given to you by _Missy_?” She stopped walking and stared at him, watching the conflict flicker across his shadowed features. She had a hard time believing that someone as clever as he could possibly be so easily led.

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you,” he argued, squaring up opposite her and shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was worried it would be too…”

“Alien?” Clara scoffed. “I watched you change into a new man, I dived into your timestream and travelled around the universe with you in a police box; I think I’m accustomed to alien, thank you very much.”

“It’s not much further,” he grumbled, bad-naturedly. Why was she always so infuriatingly right? “We should keep walking.” He strode off, holding his breath until he heard her footsteps resume behind him, practically skipping as she rushed to catch up with his longer stride.

“I’m not angry,” she said, more softly this time. He grunted and shifted his gaze towards her, all the while maintaining his newly urgent pace. “I get it. I know that you’re scared, that the last thing you want is to be responsible for whatever it is he’s trying to do. But I think you’ve been lied to. Again.”

“You can’t know -”

“I know you!” she exclaimed. “I know you struggle to do the right thing, constantly. I know you try to be a good man but, and I’m sorry if this comes as a shock to you, you’re not a paragon of virtue. You make mistakes, you lose your temper. Even, on occasion,” she touched his arm tentatively, “you’ve been known go too far. Am I right?” He refused to look at her, squinting into the darkness ahead of them as though he could make anything out other than blurred shadows and indistinct shapes. “Lonkath,” Clara said, trying a different tack, “when Lonkath pulled his stunt before, what did you want to do to him?”

“I -” the Doctor responded haltingly, “what’s the point of this, Clara?”

  
“Whatever it was, I bet it wasn’t nice. I bet it’s similar to what I wanted to do to him when he was holding that disintegrator on you. If the Valeyard is made of all your negative qualities, all of your anger, guilt, rage and selfishness, why would you feel like that now he’s left?”

“Perhaps it’s still feeding him,” the Doctor said, frowning. “Besides, there’s a difference between wanting to break Lonkath’s neck and -”

At that moment, rather unexpectedly, a tinny version of Peter Andre’s ‘Mysterious Girl’ began playing in his jacket pocket. Even in the dark, Clara could see the tips of the Doctor’s ears turn red with embarrassment. “Don’t say a word,” he warned as he patted down his coat to find his phone and wrestled it from his inner pocket. The chorus repeated as Clara bit down on her bottom lip, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she assured him, her cheeks dimpling. “I mean, really, the significant thing about this is that you’ve even got signal down here to begin with. Nothing else amiss at all.” He scowled at her so mightily that she had to bark out a laugh. _The Oncoming Storm, indeed_. He brought the phone up and swiped to answer the call.

“Anahson!” he crowed, after a moment. “Just the Janus I was hoping for…”

* * *

Missy watched as the time rotors pistoned in and out above the console. She pulled on the lapels of her jacket, straightened her spine and swivelled the heel of her shoe on the floor. “So you’re not going to kill him?” She snorted. “Did you not bring all of your anatomy back with you from the Matrix? Are you lacking the unmentionables?”

“There are many things worse than death, Mistress,” the Valeyard declared, almost sadly. He turned his back on her, shoved his hands in his pockets in a gesture less like the Valeyard and more like the Doctor than she had ever seen him. She swallowed. “And,” he added, confirming her niggling worry, “I suppose I should thank you for the part you have played. Without your betrayal, none of this would be possible.” She knew it was coming, just as she knew there was nowhere to run, not that she’d give him the satisfaction.  

When he turned around, he held the box in front of him. She arched her eyebrow.

“If you open that thing up and there’s a ballerina twirling round inside on a spring with some twee music playing, I’m going to be very disappointed,” she huffed, folding her arms across her chest and bracing herself. With a quirk of his lips, the Valeyard lifted the lid of the box the smallest, tiniest fraction. Missy felt a static rush thrum through the very fibre of her being. It spoke to the deepest parts of her. Time. Time itself, weaponised.

 _It couldn’t be.._.

A tendril of energy reached out, searching. A pulsating rainbow that somehow drained the console room of colour, of hope. It creeped across the air, leaching the life from the path it followed. It inched its way toward her but Missy stood her ground. Even she couldn’t think of a way out of this one. The tendril tentatively investigated the sleeve of her dark purple jacket and, absently, she hoped it wouldn’t singe the lining. She liked this jacket. A tingle crept across her skin as the tendril latched on, glowing brightly.

Then, the pain started. It lanced through her and she gasped, despite her stubborn refusal to not let it show. To not show him. The Valeyard watched, like a scientist testing a hypothesis. It tore through her teeth, her bones. It burned brightly and then...nothing.

The Valeyard snapped the box shut and put it back in his pocket. He walked around the console, whistling a familiar but unknown tune - he couldn’t quite place it - to the suddenly empty room. His dark eyes glittered as he glanced at where the Mistress had been stood. He didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. As it should be.

With a spring in his step, he pushed his way out of the door and into the ridiculous diner, finally ready to meet his destiny.

* * *

As they climbed the ladder leading out of the tunnel and into the barn, Clara  kept her eyes fixed on the TARDIS stood in the corner of dark room, its door open invitingly. _Thank goodness_. With light steps, she crossed over to where Anahson and Ashildr were sat recuperating on straw bales and hugged them both warmly. As she wrapped her arm around Ashildr’s shoulder, she was surprised to feel bare skin. Turning the other woman around, she saw the singe mark that had blasted clear through the Gallifreyan clothing. The skin revealed underneath looked pink and fresh.

“Close call?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Lonkath’s hired help,” Ashildr responded, “- it’s nothing. I hear you two have been causing trouble again? Good to see you’re back to normal, Doctor.”

“Me,” the Doctor said curtly before catching himself. “Sorry, is it Ashildr now?”

“Clara’s been getting me used to having a name again.”

“Bossy, isn’t she?” he asked, dodging the elbow to the ribs Clara tried to send in his direction. The Doctor turned his attention to Anahson as she hovered nearby, unable to fully express her joy at seeing him back to his usual self. He smiled gently, rested a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Haida,” he said, blunt as ever. “I should have been there for you.”

“You were,” Anahson responded, ducking her head. He caught the flash of the inhibitor on her temple and his forehead creased with worry.

“We need to get out of here,” Ashildr interrupted before he could comment. She looked at them both. “God knows how many Time Lords Lonkath and Rassilon have on their side. I assume you’ve got a destination in mind?”

“We think so. The Valeyard left us an invitation of sorts,” Clara replied, her mind skimming back to the burst of energy that destroyed her apartment building. “Either that or he was destroying evidence.”

“Or it could just be his version of trolling,” the Doctor marched over to the TARDIS and held the door open with one arm, ushering them all in with the other. “You never can tell with psychopaths.” As Clara squeezed in, he followed behind her closely. The small team fanned out to different stations around the console and, for a couple of seconds, the Doctor just stood on the grating at the entrance, floored. His mouth hung open slightly as he soaked in the familiarity of his beloved ship.

Clara watched him from across the room. His eyes met hers as they shone.

“Good to be home?” She asked, her head tilted.

“Yeah,” he chuffed before striding over to her and, with raised eyebrows indicated that they should enter the coordinates they had agreed upon. She grinned at the gesture and reached for her usual lever only to be surprised when his hand on her arm arrested her movement.

“Wait,” the Doctor ordered, his face all of a sudden cast into shadow. He looked over to where Anahson and Ashildr stood, anticipating their departure. Then, he looked down to the confused Clara at his side and sighed. His face twitched. “I should say something,” he began, hesitantly. “I should -”

Clara shook her head. “Doctor, don’t do this…”

“You should go home,” he turned to Anahson. “I can take you home. To London. Hell, to Haida if you want, so you can find your people. You name it, time and place. That goes for you too, Ashildr. Anywhere you want. I don’t care. I’ll take you anywhere, I promise. This isn’t your fight. You didn’t sign up to take on the Valeyard.” He was agitated now, all spittle and straining neck muscles. He felt Clara’s fingers wrap around his, a touch so light he wouldn’t have been able to feel it if he wasn’t so attuned to her.

“What about me?” She asked, eyes wide. “Do you want to send me away again too?”

His blue eyes blazed into hers, nostrils flaring as he stared back at her. The TARDIS lights flickered, or was that just his imagination?

“Oh, Clara, my Clara,” his memories flooded through him again and he found it hard to take his next breath, “if I knew what was good for me, I’d have taken you to the extraction chamber myself. This is _beyond_ dangerous.”

“But you didn’t,” she reasoned, looking over to where Anahson and Ashildr waited to see how this played out, “you knew you didn’t want to do this alone. Didn’t you?”

His shoulders hunched as he lowered his voice and leaned down to speak to her only. “But is it because this is what it will take to win or because -” he gestured between them with his fingers, his face contorted by whatever inner turmoil was racing around that cavernous mind of his.

Clara smiled. “Does it matter?” With her head, she indicated where the others stood. “We’re travelling with a billions year old human who has the part of the Mire that actually counts. We’ve got Anahson on our team, an empath who can see the future and the past and is getting stronger every day. We’ve got me - functionally dead, sure - but a veteran of time travel and all things Doctor and, might I add, clever and stylish to boot. And then we’ve got you...well, it can’t all be good,” her eyes twinkled and she let out a mental sigh of relief as his own did the same, “sounds like a great line up to me; the Valeyard won’t know what’s hit him.”

Decision made, she turned back to the console and nodded at Ashildr who stepped forward to take up the crank. Ashildr showed Anahson which button to press on her side.

“Either of you want to go home?” Clara asked, cheerfully.

“No, thanks,” Anahson replied, “don’t even know where home is, to be honest. It might be here.”

“Been there, done that,” Ashildr said, “gets boring after a while.”

Clara nodded, proud of her friends. She looked back to the Doctor who was stood, a little bit flabbergasted. “Oi,” she said, in a stage whisper, “pull your weight. That lever there,” she pointed. The Doctor’s mouth quirked up into a bemused smile.

“Giving me orders on my own ship now?” He asked, glancing up at the time rotors before looking across to her again.

“Yep,” Clara replied, easily, “don’t even argue.” With a nod of her head, she signalled to the others and, in unison, they started up the grinding rotors. The TARDIS wheezed and groaned, gradually vanishing from the Gallifreyan barn that had been the site of so much upheaval. Soon, the only evidence anything had been there was a whirling dervish of disrupted dust and straw that eventually floated back down to the ground and settled, leaving the night still and silent once more.

* * *

 

 


	9. Borrowed Time

_‘Slowly follow shining stars_

_Feel the solar flare_

_I'm on borrowed time right now_

_And I'm low on air.’_

‘Even Though’ – Morcheeba

* * *

Her living room was full with them all stood in it, never mind the TARDIS unhappily squeezed into the corner. Clara tried not to look around much, avoiding staring for too long at the half-packed boxes of her old life. They had materialised approximately eighteen minutes before the blast was due to shoot through her bedroom window and destroy the building. Long enough to have a good look around, short enough that they were unlikely to be interrupted or discovered, according to the Doctor. Optimum snooping time, he’d said, as though this was something everyone should know.

Clara felt sick at the thought of what would happen once they left.

Right now, however, there were other distractions she was attempting to ignore. Clearly, someone had been in the process of getting all her stuff together after her death. There was a box full of trinkets from her travels with the Doctor sat on the sofa. In her dad’s handwriting, the word ‘PROPS?’ was written across the cardboard in black marker. A box of tissues she couldn’t remember buying was sat on her coffee table, close to empty.

She wished he could have known how amazing her life had been. _Was_. She wished a lot of things. The guilt for having spent so little time worrying about how her father had coped with her untimely demise crept up on her quietly and tapped her on the shoulder.

Everyone was looking at her but it was Ashildr who spoke. “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” she breezed, “it’s just weird. I’ll get over it.”

The Doctor wrang his hands together and cleared his throat. “Right, we’re looking for anything out of place, any anachronisms. Anahson, take the kitchen but be careful when you look in the fridge, Clara likes to conduct scientific experiments with her leftovers…”

“That was one time in the summer holidays,” Clara snorted, “and if someone hadn’t brought me back from Ancient Egypt two weeks late, that courgette would never have liquefied.” She caught the Doctor making a face at Anahson, curving his fingers into claws in a mime of the dangers she might face inside the small refrigerator. He glanced at Clara as he did it, gauging her reaction and she knew he was doing this little act to make her feel better. She smiled. “I’ll get the bedroom. Ashildr, you okay in here?”

The Viking nodded and sauntered across to where a stack of boxes was precariously piled next to a house plant who had seen better days. Clara steeled herself and pushed her way through into her bedroom, sensing the Doctor follow closely behind as they both instantly dropped the pretense they were fine with this.

The room was practically bare; the bed had been stripped, the wardrobe emptied. A spider’s web adorned the top of her curtain rail, wavering at the disturbance as she pulled them open, filling the room with a diffuse grey light. The Doctor shuffled around to the other side of bed and sat down on it, squeaking the springs of the mattress experimentally.

“How long?” She asked, as she pulled open the top drawer of her dresser: empty.

“Fourteen minutes and...twenty eight seconds,” he replied, sliding open the drawer of her bedside table, ogling its contents in a flustered panic and then slamming it shut again. Clara shook her head.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, “I meant -”

“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, turning his head to look at her. “Anything seem out of place?”

“Everything’s out of place,” she knelt down and picked up a shoe-box that had been left at the bottom of the wardrobe. She lifted the lid and rummaged slowly through the contents: cute notes from Danny scribbled on torn out pages of exercise books, old gig tickets of bands and DJ’s she hadn’t thought about for years, a cinema stub or two from films she could no longer remember. She put the box back down. She hadn’t been in her flat very much after her and the Doctor had run away together after the incident with the Dream Crabs that one Christmas, a thousand lifetimes ago. It felt strange to be back, as though she was sorting through detritus left by a casual acquaintance.

“Three weeks, two days and eleven hours,” the Doctor said, softly. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared straight ahead to where her bedroom wall met the floor. “I could give you minutes and seconds if you wanted?” Clara felt vaguely sick. Her stomach rolled as she brushed her way to his side of the bed, banging her knee against the stupid frame on the corner like she always used to, only this time she wouldn’t sport her usual bruise. She stepped carefully on the carpet, avoiding the faint stain from the time she’d overdone the red wine and missed the bucket shortly after getting the job at Coal Hill. She’d drunk dialed him that night and hadn’t heard the end of it for weeks.

He didn’t look up when she stood in front of him so she had to try to decipher how he was feeling from the angle of his head and the unconscious clenching and unclenching of his right fist. Somewhere, somehow, right at this moment, he was in his Confession Dial, suffering through his own personal hell just to get her back. And he would be for the rest of time. For almost as long as the universe continued (and obviously, there was some doubt at the moment as to whether it would), there would be a version of him in there. The very thought of it galvanised her arm and she tentatively reached out with her fingers, threading them through the messy curls of his hair, stroking softly until she saw his hand relax.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. He lifted his head and looked at her, his expression open, eyes clear and focused. Her hand stilled its motion, slid down to his cheek as his eyelids fluttered delicately closed.

“Clara, we’ve got something here,” it was Ashildr’s voice, carrying through the door. Clara quirked her eyebrows at the Doctor and his lips lifted into a tight, bemused smile as he opened one eye and squinted up at her. For time travellers, their timing was really appalling. Still, they had a job to do, an encroaching countdown even; the universe clearly didn’t want to allow them the luxury to come to terms with anything. _Heaven forfend_ , she thought as she reluctantly tugged him to his feet.

* * *

The General kicked a clump of dirt and sand to the side as she waited, sweat beading on the back of her neck, threatening to trickle uncomfortably down her spine. She felt half-naked without her full armour but the benefits of being less conspicuous and encumbered overrode the reassurance her uniform would normally provide. The blazing heat of the midday sun bleached the outcrop of rocks she hid beside, the sun bouncing off them and glaring brightly back at her, forcing her to narrow her eyes into painful slits. A small lizard-like creature, disrupted by her movements, scurried out from underneath a stone and blinked at her with something resembling admonishment. As she stared it down, she heard Gastron approach, sounding as hesitant about being in the Dry Lands as she. The critter vanished in a blur as he drew close. The General sighed. She hated all of this cloak and dagger nonsense, largely because she didn’t have the luxury of a cloak or a dagger and was having to navigate the mess that had become Gallifreyan policies by gut instinct alone.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she said, feeling less formal, less in charge in this setting. Gastron looked a little taken aback.

“Ma’am,” he nodded, and she silently thanked him for his rigidity. It reminded her who she was. The subterfuge did not sit well with her, the General liked to face her enemies head on. However, at the moment establishing exactly who her enemies were was more complicated than it had ever been before. Too many suspected her part in the Doctor’s escape, Gastron’s too. There were conversations she now didn’t feel comfortable having even in her own Citadel.

“What’s the word on Lonkath? Meryllda?”

Something flickered across Gastron’s face and she found herself compelled to take a step forward. “They won’t allow me anywhere near Meryllda,” he explained, “not after what I did in the Workshop.”

“Telling in itself,” she muttered, “how about that Captain you said was sympathetic?”

“She’s a different story,” Gastron shifted in the heat, half at attention, half-tempted to rest against one of the steep cliffs that lined the canyon. “She told me Lonkath is monitoring for paradoxes, obsessively. That’s when he’s not rallying for support, for anyone who can whisper into Meryllda’s ear. Tip the balance over if it comes to a vote.”

“He’s always been a smart operator,” the General conceded, “and it’s only a matter of time before the Valeyard shows himself in their timeline. The fact there hasn’t been a ripple yet is troubling.”

“I agree, Ma’am,” Gastron looked down at his feet as though he had a question but had changed his mind.

“What is it, Major?” The General asked. She respected Gastron and didn’t want him to hold back if something wasn’t sitting right.

“It’s just -” he began, uncertain, “after everything... Ishtan and Byner, the stunt Lonkath pulled in the High Council; why haven’t the others sanctioned him?”

She glanced at him, noticing not for the first time how young her trusted Major was. That said, eleven regenerations in and she was still had expectations, was still an idealist at heart, even if it didn’t always show. She felt the same disappointment at Lonkath’s lack of reprimand as Gastron. “Because they’re worried he’s right,” she finally replied.

“Permission to speak freely?” Gastron swallowed, a trickle of moisture escaping his hairline and running down his temple. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.

“Granted.”

“What if he is right? What if the prophecy comes to pass?” Gastron sounded unsure. Now he’d had the chance to replay his actions in the Workshop, he was second guessing himself. By letting Lady Me and Anahson escape, had he somehow set the Doctor and Clara Oswald on a path to tear apart the fabric of time and end up standing in the ruins of Gallifrey?

The General surprised him by placing a hand on his shoulder, a comforting but entirely unexpected gesture. Her eyes caught his and something in his chest tightened, momentarily. “Prophecies always come to pass, Gastron,” she told him, “one way or another. And sometimes, in the attempt to avoid them, or control them,we end up fulfilling them.”

The younger soldier blinked a couple of times. “That’s -”

“Not an answer? No. It’s not. And that’s my reasoning entirely: Lonkath claims to understand the meaning of the prophecy. He says he’s certain of it. Well, he can’t be - that’s not how prophecies work - so he’s either deluded or he’s lying. Possibly both.”

Gastron relented but seemed unconvinced. The General sighed and plucked her damp tunic away from her chest. “Consider this:” she tried, “the Time War. We all knew it was coming and what it meant. Generation after regeneration of Time Lord tried to find a way to win it even though everything pointed to our and the Daleks’ mutually assured destruction. All these efforts achieved was a hastening of the darkest days,” The General tilted her head, waiting for the point she was trying to make to sink in.

“Until the Doctor,” he said, slowly, “until the Doctor - all of him - showed up.”

“I have never been so certain,” the General announced, feeling a rush of relief at being able to finally speak her thoughts, “of an outcome in all my years. I was sure we were all going to be wiped out, Daleks and Time Lords alike. And you know what, Gastron? I strongly suspect that at some point, for a while there, we were.”

There was nothing Gastron could say to that.

A large insect buzzed between them, lazily drifting as its thorax glistened green and then purple. It wandered too close to his ear and, on reflex, Gastron wafted his hand in the air to disrupt its path. “So,” he said at length, drawing a breath and holding it until the warm air turned stale in his lungs, “Lonkath. What are we going to do?”

* * *

“It’s hardly subtle,” Ashildr called over her shoulder as they emerged back out into the living room. She held in front of her a photo frame Clara recognised, a present from her Gran on her birthday a few years back. The picture of her mother that had been in there had been replaced with a photo of an extravagantly posed Missy. Her hands were up and pressed towards the camera as though she was trapped in the frame - god only knew who she’d got to take it. On the glass there was a smudged kiss in dark red lipstick. Ashildr handed the frame over to Clara who rolled her eyes and showed it to the Doctor.

“Well, now we know how the Valeyard is getting around,” she said, as Anahson stepped forward, staring as something came loose from the rear of the frame and drifted down onto the rug by the coffee table, “I bet she was in on this all along.” Clara had no idea why she felt disappointed but she did.

“What’s that? Something just fell on the floor,” the Janus bent down to pick it up, a small, square yellow piece of paper. A post-it note. She held it up for the others so they could read the two words carefully printed on it in black marker pen: _ORSON PINK_.

Ashildr frowned. “Clara, isn’t that your handwriting?”

“Yeah, but I wrote that ages ago when I was trying to tell Danny -” she broke off, confused, “I’d put this away. It was in my year planner, I’m sure it was.” She looked at the Doctor who scratched the side of his neck thoughtfully.

“Missy has your TARDIS and she’s with the Valeyard,” he began, twitching as though he wanted to pace while working through it all out loud, but there wasn’t room. He settled for rubbing his hands over his face instead. “Never mind for a moment that this isn’t going to be a straightforward alliance; historically, they don’t agree on exactly how they want to wreak destruction on the universe…”

“Just that they both think that’s a valid lifestyle choice which is, frankly, enough,” Clara added. The Doctor tilted his head in agreement. “But they’re travelling through our timeline, right?” she asked, holding up the post-it stuck on her finger as though she had had an idea.

“A trap you cannot fall for,” Ashildr warned, “if we go chasing them all over time and space, we’re going to cause damage.”

“A paradox,” the Doctor agreed, “paradoxes upon paradoxes. A veritable all you can eat buffet of paradoxes with an unlimited side plate of temporal distortion. The Valeyard would know we’d never risk it. So would Missy.”

“But they called us here to find this, right? Or did they?” Anahson asked, perching on the arm of Clara’s sofa, “Because this flat is going to blow up in -” she looked at the Doctor.

“Seven minutes, thirty-nine seconds,” he supplied.

“I’ve got it!” Clara announced, making Ashildr jump next to her. She waved the post-it on her finger like a flag. “Doctor, where did we meet Orson Pink?” She moved over to stand next to him as he raised his eyebrows at her.

“The Last Planet. The end of the Universe…” his face lit up. “Oh!”

“Oh!” she agreed, turning to Ashildr and Anahson. “This,” she waggled her finger, “is the one place in our timeline where we can go to face the Valeyard. The one place where the risk of damage is relatively low.”

“‘Relatively low?’” Ashildr asked, looking suspicious. “And I feel as though I must point out the only reason we know this is because _Missy_ seems to be leading us in that direction. She can’t be trusted.”

“Unless,” the Doctor growled, taking the photo frame from Clara’s hands and scowling at the picture as though it was the Time Lady herself, “she’s playing both sides and wants to even things out a little.”

“That’s an awfully big assumption, Doctor,” Ashildr folded her arms across her chest.

He shrugged his shoulders heavily. “Half of the time that’s the best we can do, Ashildr. You’ve lived long enough to know that.” She stared at him as though assessing this for a moment and then gave a sigh.

“Let’s go, then,” Ashildr said, making her way over to the TARDIS.

“To the end of the universe,” Anahson followed after her, “that doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

The door to the TARDIS creaked open for them and they stepped inside. Clara stood out of the way and let the Doctor squeeze past her as he crossed the room. She was about to fall into step behind him when a thought suddenly occurred to her and she stopped. By her calculations, they had about five minutes until the blast hit. A five minute head start. They deserved that, at least.

Sensing she wasn’t behind him, the Doctor turned around just in time to see Clara lunge towards her front door and fumble with the lock. “Clara, no!” he shouted, diving out of the TARDIS, too late. She yanked the door open and ran into the hallway beyond, to a point a few metres down the hall. She looked over her shoulder at his furious expression. _Not sorry_ , she muttered internally as she used her elbow to smash the glass for the fire alarm and pressed the button inside.

Instantly, the alarm began to wail and, not wanting to be spotted, she raced back into her flat just as her neighbour’s door started to open. She ran through the living room, jumped over her magazine rack and dove past the Doctor as he reached out and grabbed forcefully onto her wrist, heaving her into the TARDIS and slamming the door. He was breathing heavily and towered over her.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he shouted as Anahson and Ashildr started forward. He dropped her wrist and strode across to the console to flip the nearest lever, practically pulling it off the hinge. Clara stomped after him, feeling her own ire building at his hypocrisy.

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Clara? What did you do?” Ashildr tried to step between them but Anahson stilled her with a hand on her arm.

“She used her knowledge of the future to change the fate of the people in that building,” the Doctor scathed, “exactly the kind of thing the Valeyard wants us to do.”

“A five minute warning is hardly going to rip apart time,” she scoffed, turning to Ashildr, “I set off the fire alarm,” Ashildr blinked at her. “Oh, come off it!” Clara exploded, “Like we didn’t interfere more with the Spice Cartel, or on Aechon, or Noveria,” she span around to face the Doctor, waving her hand towards him, “or any number of times in the last two thousand years -”

“I’m a Time Lord Clara, I know what I’m doing,” he sounded weary and ran a hand through his hair, “there’s too much at stake to be so reckless.” He turned his back on her and walked around to the other side of the console, entering in the co-ordinates for their destination. She followed behind him, unwilling to back down.

“I’m not sorry,” she said, running her fingers along the edge of the console angrily as she watched his hands dance over the controls, “those people are my neighbours, my friends. This is my fault. All I did was give them a chance.”

“A chance at living through a temporal negation paradox?” He snapped, stopping what he was doing and getting in her personal space.

“Maybe we just need to calm down for a second,” Ashildr said, holding up her hands in a placating manner, “we’ve all been through a lot -”

“No,” insisted the Doctor, stubbornly, “she needs to understand,” Clara opened her mouth to object but there was a desperation in the way he looked at her that stole the words from her mouth before she could form them. He bent down slightly, forcing his tone to be less abrasive. “The Time Lords know where we are and what we’re doing,” he said as she stared up at him, “they will be watching very carefully for anything they think is a sign of this latest prophecy coming to pass. So, if they spot a paradox - no matter how small - they will try to fix it and they’ll go over the top, they always do.” He paused, taking a breath, “They will send creatures to erase you from time, Clara. They will take you out of the equation,” his eyes searched hers as he tried to get her to see his point of view, “it will be worse than a neural block. It won’t be _like_ you never existed, you never _will_ have existed. There will be no Clara Oswald, ever.” He softened his features a little as she furrowed her brow. “And without you, there’s no me either.”

Clara shifted her weight onto her back leg and cocked her head at him, softening a little too as she caught on to what he was trying to articulate.

“Me as in ‘Me’ or ‘me’ as in you?”

There it was, the hint of a worried smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. “Both, actually,” he admitted, flustered, “because if I hadn’t had to wipe my boot after stomping on that Love Sprite, we would never have ended up at Ashildr’s village. Do you see? Ripples into tidal waves...”

“Charming,” chimed the Viking in question, “billions of years of a life lived all because you stood in something unpleasant. Shouldn’t we get out of here before we get blown to smithereens?”

The Doctor stepped away from Clara and nodded, wetting his lips unconsciously. “Anahson, do the honours,” he indicated on the panel nearest to the Janus. She quickly pressed the final button of the sequence and the familiar wheezing and groaning of the TARDIS whisked them away from Clara’s flat, Earth and the 21st Century.

The Doctor beckoned them over to the TARDIS doors as the time rotors died down and inched them open. “I had to disable the TARDIS’ security features,” he intoned as they all peered out and down to the small planet beneath them, its atmosphere a haze of dusky pink. It was dwarfed by the expanding sun that filled their field of vision, dazzling and deadly yet quietly beautiful. “It’s the only way she landed the first time around, remember?” This last part was to Clara, who nodded, thinking back.

“Where abouts are we?” she asked, gesturing down at the planet. The Doctor pointed, which was hardly an accurate indication, but they all looked in the vague direction regardless.

“Down there, just by that mountain, along from the crevasse.”

“If you say so.” He grinned at her, flashing his teeth.

“So what’s the plan?” Ashildr asked, stepping away from the spectacle to allow Anahson a better, breathless look.

The Doctor went as if to gnaw on his thumbnail but thought better of it. “We’re early,” he admitted ruefully, “Clara looked out of the window of the module when we went back to rescue Colonel Pink and there was nothing out there. So we’ll have to wait until night falls. Still, it’ll give the TARDIS time to decode that data you stole from Gallifrey, give us all a chance to -” he waved a hand, wildly, “do whatever it is people are supposed to do before they rush headlong into a trap.”

Ashildr snorted, “It’ll also give you time to actually come up with a plan.” Anahson let out a nervous laugh before backing away from the door and over to the console where she could bring around the monitor showing the progress the TARDIS was making on the data drive they’d acquired from the Security Archive. Not long to go.

“We’re at eighty-five percent,” she said, flicking the screen back off.

Clara leaned against the door-frame and watched the Doctor watch the planet. He sensed her scrutiny and shifted so he was leaning on the opposite side, facing her. “You remember what happened down there when it got dark?” she asked, gaze roaming his features before looking back down to where earlier versions of herself and the Doctor were currently chasing fairytales and things that went creak in the night, utterly unaware of what fate had in store for them. It seemed like a simpler time, flirting about accents and dates instead of battling memories and confessions.

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “I suppose now at least we get to finally find out what was on the other side of that door.” For some reason, the prospect no longer filled him with excitement. In fact, he got the distinct impression everything was about to go to hell. As he looked down at the planet below, at one of the last remnants of the universe, a very special kind of panic began to overtake him. He snuck a glance at Clara as he tried to dampen the gnawing sensation that their time, once again, was running out.

* * *

“They’re calling it a miracle,” Lonkath spat, pacing the dark corridor, deep in the bowels of the Citadel. The marble walls were a welcome cool relief from the heat outside. His guards, five of them, gathered. The newly healed Maytal clenched a tense jaw as the fight against the Hybrid became increasingly personal. _He could have prevented this_. “The humans called it a ‘miracle’,” the Councillor continued, eyes flashing with fury, “that a fire alarm would malfunction moments before a ‘freak lightning storm’ destroys an apartment building, giving them time to evacuate.”

He whirled on his heel and clasped his hands behind his back. “Meryllda was almost on our side, until the General started with her tired old tricks. An anomaly, she said. Minimal damage to the fabric of time. Not a fixed point. Well, I say nonsense! People are alive who ought to have been died. There is a weakness, a rift that will we will have to repair. How long? How long before the next one? And the one after that?”

Maytal cleared his throat. “Councillor, have you spoken to the Lord President?”

“Not yet,” Lonkath growled, “the situation here is too unstable. I cannot risk giving away his location.”

Maytal shifted, running a hand through his thick, dark beard. “Sir, I was thinking, while I was in the Medbay,” grudgingly, he eyed his comrades from the side as his Lieutenant hid a smirk, “not my strong suit, I know,” he gruffed.

Lonkath stopped his pacing. “Well, what is it?”

“The threat of the Hybrid, the way to neutralise it, it’s to split up Clara Oswald and the Doctor - to make sure they don’t _get closer_ , to keep them apart.”

“You just said the same thing three times,” his Lieutenant muttered so that only Maytal could hear. There were definitely some disadvantages to encouraging such a close-knit team; humour at inappropriate moments was probably top of the list.

“Councillor Meryllda agreed that the Oswald woman be returned to the extraction chamber, correct?” Maytal asked, without pausing for an answer. “Short of sending out a team to drag her back, that doesn’t look likely to happen any time soon. But what if we recruited somebody to do that for us?” Maytal leaned towards Lonkath, eagerly, “Someone with a vested interest in making sure Clara Oswald returns to the moment of her death. Someone who doesn’t allow their prey to cheat the terms of their contract like she has -”

Lonkath’s eyes widened. “The Quantum Shade,” he breathed, as the idea took root.

Maytal nodded. “The Quantum Shade,” he posited, “may be quite interested to learn that Clara Oswald might never return to Trap Street. That they’ve been tricked out of their soul. I’d even go so far as to suggest they would be furious.”

Councillor Lonkath smiled, his cracked lips curling unnaturally upwards. The quiet of the corridor expanded darkly as he prematurely envisaged his heroic victory and basked in what he imagined would be Lord President Rassilon’s delighted gratitude.

* * *

She was changing when he found her.

The Doctor entered her section of the vast rooms which made up the wardrobe, shutting the door quietly behind him. If Clara had been capable, she might have blushed at his attention as she struggled out of the flowing Gallifreyan top, a little ripe now after three days in the Zero Room and an evening walking through the tunnels, and into the clothes the TARDIS kindly provided; a striped black and white top that was soft and blissfully allowed for a full range of motion. The jeans supplied were comfortable, fly undone whilst she tucked herself in. She glanced over to where he was watching, leaning against one of the huge armoires that lined the room, arms folded across his chest.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, pausing her progress and turning to face him. He shook his head minutely and indicated for her to carry on, sitting down on the velvet and mahogany chaise longue that stood in front of the rack containing lines upon lines of shoes. He fidgeted, silent. She frowned and did herself up, bending down to pick up the thick-heeled ankle boots she’d chosen. She made her way over, socked feet sinking into the plush carpet, and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. She slipped the boots onto her feet and zipped them up, all the while feeling his stare burning into her skin. Clara straightened up and shifted towards him. Was he still upset from their argument before? She sighed.

“Look -”

Whatever she had been about to say was cut off as his hand deftly buried itself in her hair, a gentle pressure applied to incline her face towards his. She froze, stared at him as he carefully lifted his left knee onto the seat and inched closer. _Oh my god_. _Now? He chooses now? The daft -_ His cool breath ghosted across her skin and, instinctively - unnecessarily - she held her own breath as his eyes softly closed, lashes brushing his cheeks. He was waiting for her. Trusting he’d already worked out the angle - knowing him, he’d probably written a formula for it in chalk on the floor of the corridor before he’d come into the room. This was clearly a planned manoeuvre and she was damned if she was going to be the one to distract him from it - she shut her own eyes and reached out with every other sense she possessed. Of its own volition, the hand that had been resting uselessly on her knee lifted to wrap its fingers around his wrist, slipping under the velvet of his cuff, beyond the cool starchy cotton of his shirt. His breath hitched in the back of his throat, making her head swim for a second just before their lips met.

His fingers flexed slightly in her hair and brushed softly against her scalp as they adjusted the angle by mutual consent, each opening for the other as they reconnected, adjusting the pressure by tentative, experimental degrees. As the Doctor pulled away fractionally, Clara reluctantly released his bottom lip from between her own. She was hyper-aware of everything: the teetering shelves full of clothes, the faint smell of musk as the warm air filtered upwards towards some unseen vent high in the ceiling, the distant soft thrum of the TARDIS as she maintained orbit, the staccato thudding of a double heart beat. The Doctor liquidly sank back into the arm of the chaise, skittish gaze darting everywhere but in her direction. He swallowed, loudly.

The grin that suddenly burst across her features was so wide it should not have been physically possible. A sheen of tears suddenly blurred her vision but she still managed to catch sight of the matching, toothy smile blossoming on his own expressive face, manic and bit uncertain. She let out a laugh, a genuine belly laugh of joy.

“Okay, then,” she said, ducking her head to catch his eye, dimples set to stun. “But, for the record, I did already know.”

* * *

Anahson tugged at the various straps of her bright orange spacesuit as she tripped on the final step leading back into the console room. Ashildr was already waiting, similarly attired and reading through spools of data on the monitor.

“Oh, it’s done?” she dropped the straps and wandered over to catch a glimpse. Ashildr took in Anahson’s disheveled appearance and tutted.

“First time in a spacesuit?” she asked, shaking her head and pulling sharply on two of the straps. Anahson scowled as the suit suddenly felt as though it was fitting properly. Clearly, there was some knack to this she hadn’t yet mastered.

“I found it!” The Doctor crowed, as he and Clara, chic in their own matching orange jumpsuits, bounded into the console room. He held his prize aloft, waggling his eyebrows at Anahson excitedly.

“The data has finished translating,” Ashildr told them, spinning the monitor around so they could all see. Anahson gasped as the Doctor flung the double-faced helmet in her direction - plexiglass face and rear - and caught it clumsily. She smiled at the effort he’d gone to, examining the helmet from every angle.

“Okay,” said the Doctor, expression turning serious, “let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The text scrolled over the screen as they crowded around to read the messages Rassilon had sent and Lonkath’s sycophantic responses. The Doctor shook his head, frustrated. “Remember when I told you I never asked how the Time Lords recovered Gallifrey, Clara?” His fingers tensed against the console and his jaw clenched, “Well, now we know.” He indicated the screen and then span away from the console, hurt and angry.

Clara read through Rassilon’s communication and felt a wave of new hatred for the Time Lords. Did they ever do anything just because it was the right thing to do? Why did there always have to be an ulterior motive? No wonder the Doctor kept running away. She turned to Ashildr and Anahson. Her older companion looked resigned but the Janus was understandably confused. “Rassilon found a way to break Gallifrey out of the pocket universe we hid it in after the Time War,” she glanced over her shoulder to where the Doctor was leaning against the railing staring blankly at nothing, “the Valeyard helped him.”

Ashildr scrolled through the text, “He did it from the Matrix?”

“Big Time Lord computer thing they all get uploaded to when they eventually die,” Clara explained to Anahson, “but the thing is how he got out. How could they, Doctor?” The set of his shoulders was tight as he braced himself, almost as though he was holding himself up. She suspected this was actually the case. She wanted to go to him but she held back. He needed time.

“It was part of the deal,” he snarled, distaste dripping off every word, “the Valeyard uses his knowledge from the Matrix to recover Gallifrey and hide them away, then the Time Lords let him out of the Matrix again. It must have stuck in Rassilon’s throat that the only way to do that was to grant me a new regeneration cycle.”

Clara remembered vividly her desperation as she had kneeled in front of the crack in the wall on Trenzalore and begged the Time Lords to help the Doctor. She’d told them that if they loved him, they would help. Her heart broke for him at the revelation that the one seemingly unselfish thing the Time Lords had done for him had been a lie.

“There was too much regeneration energy,” the Doctor muttered, still facing away from them, “I knew there was too much energy. I wiped out a Dalek fleet with it! No wonder I was so out of sorts, the Valeyard must have latched onto it -” he whirled around, strode over to the monitor and closed the screen off. He pulled the data drive violently from the console and flung it across the room. Anahson stepped back to move out of his way as Ashildr came forward, her hands outstretched to try and calm them both down.

“What does this mean for us, for now?” she asked, “No good is going to come from rehashing what happened -”

“Ashildr,” Clara’s voice held a warning tone, the one she normally deployed when Ashildr’s vast lifespan was preventing her from empathising with someone, “think about it: ever since the Doctor regenerated into his current form, the Valeyard has been there too.”

“Watching, listening, learning,” the Doctor finally met Clara’s stare, suddenly aware that every private thought he’d ever had since his regeneration, the Valeyard would have been privy to. He felt violated. “He was there, in my subconscious. Waiting.”

Clara let the weight of this sink in as the lights in the TARDIS pulsed, the ship’s internal alarm telling them night had fallen across right section of the planet below. So, the Valeyard had been there all along and the Time Lords were absolutely and utterly off her Christmas list for the rest of time. She could feel the Doctor’s anger building. _Good_ , she thought, somberly. _We can use that._ “But the thing is,” she said, suddenly realising something, “he could only emerge once the neural block was in place, right? Once your memories had been suppressed. So how the hell did he know that would happen? Everything that led to it was an accident, right?” She gestured to Ashildr, “I wasn’t supposed to die on Trap Street, no one could have known you planned to use the Extraction Chamber, even you didn’t know what the neural block would end up doing -”

“The Matrix generates prophecies,” the Doctor crossed back over to the console, punched in some coordinates before pausing, as though suddenly tired, “the Valeyard would have been one with it when he was exiled; able to see the past, the present, the future. Able to generate -” he froze and turned back to Clara, eyes shining, “able to generate prophecies and manipulate them.”

“It was Rassilon who made me work with the Quantum Shade on Trap Street,” Ashildr confirmed, “to lure you in. Threatened me himself - it must have been part of their arrangement.”

Clara raised her eyebrows as the magnitude of what that could mean attempted to make itself known to her; it was too much to comprehend. “So everything that’s happened -”

“Effectively demolishes the notion of free will, doesn’t it?” the Doctor quipped, without mirth.

“Okay, okay,” Clara said unsteadily, knowing she had to get them back on track, “so... how do we win?”

“Clara -”

“No. I’m not having that, Doctor. How do we _win_?”

“Well he’s not in the Matrix now, is he?” It was Anahson who softly spoke, having watched quietly from the side, holding her helmet limply against her leg. “So he’s lost his advantage. The future’s not always fixed, I see it every day. Even my species, we can only interpret what we see. All the Valeyard is working with is whatever version of the future he saw before he left.”

The Doctor chewed his lip, thoughtfully. The proximity alarm sounded over their heads and they all turned to the monitors as the flashed up with a zoomed in satellite image of the Diner TARDIS as it materialised in the valley next to where Orson Pink’s module was sprawled. A warning light filled the console room with bright mauve, drowning the four companions in its cheerily threatening glow.

“We do something unexpected,” the Doctor announced, decisively, “something the Universe would never see coming in a billion, billion prophecies,” a feral grin crawled across his face as his plan presented itself all of a sudden, fully formed and, of course, absolutely, positively, terrifyingly bonkers.

* * *

As soon as the old police box settled on the dusty pink gravel of the planet, the entire console shut down. The time rotors ground to a halt and the dim emergency lighting flickered on. This, the Doctor had explained, was to be expected; they were too close to about twenty different potential paradoxes for the safe guards to be completely overridden. His old girl did not like where they were or what they were doing in the slightest, was never going to make this kind of thing easy on him. He’d make it up to her, if they survived this.

“We’re all clear on what to do?” he asked the others, his voice deep and serious. They nodded and he beckoned Anahson over to him, placed a small hypodermic vial in her hand. “Put these in your pockets,” he ordered, “they’re teleporters. Once it’s done, or if I give the order, or if it looks like everything’s gone wrong, inject them and they will bring you back to the TARDIS. I’ve programmed her emergency protocol to kick in and take us to the designated coordinates so we can regroup.”

He handed Clara two of the teleporters and she passed one to Ashildr. She turned the second one over in her hand, remembering when she had thought Psi and Saibra had died on Karabraxos, only to find they’d used the teleporters to escape and come back just in time to rescue them both. The Doctor shoved his own teleporter deep into the velcroed pocket on his thigh and smoothed his hands nervously down his sides.

“Remember what I said,” he gave Clara a quick glare, “no heroics. This is a very vulnerable point in time with two sets of Clara and I being here; that’s exactly what we’re counting on but it could work against us as much as in our favour. We provoke him, we get him to show his hand. Anything else is a bonus.”

He caught a glimpse of Clara’s reassuring smile as she adjusted her helmet. Ashildr donned hers and he scrabbled to gallantly help Anahson with hers. Once it was locked in place, he rapped on the top with his knuckles. “Good to go?” She nodded, a little apprehensive.

“Right!” The Doctor fitted his own helmet in place and took a deep breath. This was it. Time to face the Valeyard. He brushed past Ashildr to where Clara was waiting by the door. He looked down at her as his respirator kicked in, a rush of cool air across his face. He wanted to say something, anything. Maybe something reassuring, witty, emotional, empowering?

“You can do this,” came Clara’s muffled voice, always there when he was lost, “we can do this.”

Nodding in agreement, the Doctor squared his shoulders and pushed the TARDIS door open. Carefully, he stepped over the threshold. The boots of his spacesuit crunched into the sharp rubble that littered the ground. The TARDIS was parked in a small clearing, towering cliffs to one side, their steep faces cragged and windswept. To the west, there were hints of ruins, of a past civilisation that had perished untold ages ago. He couldn't think of a more appropriate place to face the Valeyard again. At least here, as they'd realised when they'd found Missy's souvenir, there would be no collateral damage. After all, no one else was left. A chill worked its way down the Doctor's spine as he remembered his giddy terror and resolute insistence on facing whatever had frightened Orson Pink so in the void. Of all the creatures he'd hypothesised could be out there at the end of all things, he'd never quite imagined it would be himself, with four and a half billion years of suffering behind him.

Grit, whipped by a desolate wind, danced across the face of his helmet. He checked on the others as they trudged behind him and again experienced a wave of doubt about bringing them out into the open with him. He scowled within the confines of his suit and tried to put it out of his mind. Clara was right, they were better off working together.

About one hundred metres away from where they had parked, clearly as close as either TARDIS was willing to get to the other, they could see the Diner TARDIS - Clara's TARDIS - looking rather magnificent, its lights shining like an inconceivable beacon. He thumbed his communicator to the on position."One upside to this is that the catering options at the end of the universe have improved exponentially," he joked, his voice distorted over the short range radio. He heard a fritz on the line as Ashildr connected to respond.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," she replied, "there was while a few months back when she would only fabricate celery sticks and hummus."

"Celery sticks? What had you two done to upset her?"

The Doctor's smile died on his face as he noticed a hauntingly familiar silhouette appear next to the TARDIS, in between it and the crashed module that housed himself, Clara and Colonel Pink. Evidently, the Valeyard was taking advantage of the air shell around the vessel. Probably didn't want to deviate from his black suit of mysteriousness, the Doctor thought, churlishly. An unconscious appreciation for the magician look seemed to be something else they both had in common.

A burst of static sounded over the radio.

“Such jovial conversation, Doctor,” the Valeyard drawled, almost sounding amused.

“Oh, you know,” the Doctor blustered, reveling in his natural environment of impending doom, “we’re out for a stroll at the end of the universe, got to keep up morale somehow.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” came the response, “yourself and your companions won’t be here long.”

“Nothing will be here long, it’s the end of the universe,” the Doctor rolled his eyes. They were halfway along the channel that led to the module and he indicated for the others to stop. “Long time no see, by the way. To be honest, I preferred it like that but it seems you missed me terribly. Matrix not doing it for you any more? All that knowledge and time too boring when you can’t do anything with it?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” the Valeyard snapped and the Doctor felt a little rush of triumph, he was getting to him already. “You and I have the same urges, Doctor. We’re of one mind. Sorry if your little friends weren’t aware of that fact -”

“They know.” The Doctor looked over his shoulder at Clara and nodded as he moved away from the others, walking the final paces to where he sensed the edge of the air shell was. “Can we drop this now, Valeyard?” he asked, beseechingly, “I feel like I’m in a bad spy novel. And,” he added, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched, “you might as well come out too, Missy, it’s not like you to be shy and retiring.”

“Missy?” the Valeyard smiled. The Doctor was close enough now that he could see the dark glint in his eyes. He took in the stiff collar, smart black shirt and the fitted, tailored suit. Suddenly, the Doctor felt bumbling and lethargic in his bulky spacesuit. He pushed the inadequacy out of his mind.

“Yes, Missy,” his temper was starting to fray. From what he remembered of their time inside the module, it was all about to start. He hoped Clara was keeping track, that the others knew their part...

“The Mistress is dead.”

“Nice try.”

“Look at me, Doctor. You know I can’t deceive you. You’re the one person I could never lie to.”

A heavy weight dropped and settled on the Doctor’s chest.  “Why? Why would you do that? What purpose could killing her possibly serve?”

“Well, she does rather like to go on. She was giving me a headache.”

A fresh burst of static interrupted, “He’s lying, Doctor,” came Clara’s worried voice. “Missy would never give up that easily.” If the Doctor didn’t know better, he would have said a flash of surprise registered on the Valeyard’s face as he dragged his attention over to the three women who were creeping towards the module in a tight formation.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” the Doctor took another couple of steps forward until he was right in front of the Valeyard, the air shell shimmering between them like a heat wave, “you didn’t expect her to be here.” Discreetly, the Doctor toed a line in the gravel, giving the appearance he was simply pacing back and forwards. Soon, the air shell was going to fail; he needed some way to measure how quickly it was disintegrating. “Thought Clara Oswald might have gone meekly to the Extraction Chamber once I got my memories back, did you? Were you even paying attention all those years you were squatting in my subconscious?”

“She’s still dead, Doctor. That frail, human heart will never beat again,” the Valeyard’s nostrils flared as the Doctor’s gaze bore into him, all granite and ice.

“Trust me, I know,” his tone was dangerously low, a broken, thick brogue as he leaned towards the Valeyard. It was time to end this little charade. “Which is probably part of what makes what we’re about to do very - what was it you said, Ashildr?”

“...Ill-advised,” came the bemused response.

“Ill-advised!” boomed the Doctor, holding his arms out and craning his head back to laugh into the night sky. The Valeyard inclined his chin, curious but unafraid. The Doctor returned his attention to his nemesis and leaned in conspiratorially, “She’s billions of years old,” he explained, “little bit of Mire in her,” he indicated how much with his index finger and thumb, “so she knows a thing or two about ill-advised decisions.” The Doctor lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, “She wore shellsuits all the way through the nineties.” He raised his eyebrows as though sharing a life-shattering secret.

Three loud, metallic knocks suddenly rang out, emanating from the side of the module. The Valeyard whipped his head to the source of the noise, saw Anahson and Ashildr, rocks in hand, preparing to bang on the side of Colonel Pink’s ship again.

“What is this?” the Valeyard demanded, turning back to the Doctor. An unnatural wind picked up, whipping gravel towards them. The Valeyard had to lift his hand to shield his face.

“An ill-advised decision,” the Doctor replied, calmly, having to raise his voice to be heard over the rushing air that started to whisk small whirlwinds to life around their feet. “Oh, I’m sorry - I thought it was what you wanted? A paradox? For us to rip time apart? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We thought we’d give you a helping hand.”

The Doctor strode resolutely beyond the line of the quivering air shell, sensing an electric charge as it built in the air. Something was coming, drawn by the threat to reality. “I’m fed up of fighting, you see,” he shrugged, nonchalantly, “I can show Anahson the universe but I can never undo the hurt her people have suffered. I brought Ashildr back from the dead but condemned her to lose everyone she ever loved, forever. I saved Clara, but I can never keep her with me. I can be given a new regeneration cycle and try to make amends for all the wrong I’ve done, but only if you come back too to do…” he waved his hand, “whatever it is you’re trying to do. It’s not fair. I’ve had enough.”

Three more knocks. Anahson and Ashildr focused on the control panel at the side of the module, damaged it enough that the symbol for the air shell began to flash and blink in alarm. The wind picked up a notch, it was becoming difficult to stay upright. Clara braced herself against the breeze and made her way over to the airlock of the module.

“Unless, of course,” the Doctor added, almost as an afterthought, “you imagined we were going to try and stop you. That maybe you _need_ us to try and stop you to make your prophecy come to pass. If so, us helping you isn’t really very helpful at all, is it?”

The Valeyard reached into the lining of his jacket and brought out a small, metal box, gripping onto it tightly. The Doctor scowled at it, taking in every single detail of it and storing them away in the recesses of his mind. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t” he barked, “I’m inside that module and there’s something mysterious banging on the walls. What do you think happens next? And who do you think that’s going to attract? We have the same urges, we’re of one mind. You tell me!”

A screech rang out through the air, blood curdling and piercing. The Doctor looked up and saw as a rift tore open above him, a meandering crack of yellow light streaking its way across the night sky. From inside its depths, he saw the unmistakable talons of a Reaper, trying to fight its way through, beyond the fabric of reality. The winged beast’s jaws yawned widely, snapping with malice as it struggled towards them. In its torso, a second set of teeth gnashed and growled. He just needed them all to push it for a while longer, to get the Valeyard to crack. He hoped against hope that the threat of the paradox alone would do the trick.

Anahson’s breathing was coming heavily in her mask, overpowering her respirator and misting the plexiglass. She stumbled against the module, trying not to pay attention to the huge creature as it batted against the confines of the rift. Her head swam as ream after ream of time, leaking from the creature, from within the rift itself, flooded her senses. Multi-coloured tendrils, drifting strands, they wormed their way towards her and wrapped around her mind. Unable to stop herself, she cried out, reaching towards Ashildr as she fell backwards, her helmet impacting on the hard ground with a sickening crack.

“Anahson!” Ashildr cried out, flinging her own rock to the side and rushing to gather the younger woman to her. The plexiglass of the rear face of the helmet was smashed, the deteriorating oxygen from the damaged airshell rushing in. Anahson gasped and spluttered, clawing at her throat. “Clara!” Ashildr shouted across the radio, “Anahson’s helmet is damaged!”

Clara tore her attention from the door as the fluorescent lights switched from blue to red: ‘unlocked’, read the display. The previous version of the Doctor must have used his sonic screwdriver to unlock it - they didn’t have long. She knew they were in there about to argue about her leaving him to face whatever was on the other side, surely that gave her just enough time. She flung a glance to where the current Doctor was standing off against the Valeyard, and ran for it.

A nursery rhyme echoed through her mind, helping her to keep time. She had to be back at the door before it finished or it would all be over: _What's that in the mirror, or the corner of your eye?_

The Valeyard inched the small, metallic box open and directed it upwards, pointing it at the rift. The Doctor shrank back in horror as he sensed what was within it, a swirling vortex of time, impossibly contained, dangerously unstable. It couldn’t be, it _shouldn’t_ be! The Reaper was half way through now, flapping one wing in their universe as the rift buckled and gave. It howled again, stretched its wings to its full length and burst through into their reality, darting upwards into the sky.

Clara skidded to a stop next to her friends, released the clasp on her helmet, breaking the hermetic seal with a rush of escaping air. _What's that footstep following, but never passing by?_ Ashildr went as if to stop her, but she brushed her off. “I don’t breathe, remember?” she muttered, fumbling a little as she quickly removed Anahson’s helmet and replaced it with her own. Once she was sure it was sealed, that Anahson could breathe, she looked Ashildr firmly in the eye and squeezed her knee. “Go,” she ordered, “get out of here - we’ll be right behind you.”

 _Perhaps they're all just waiting_...

Ashildr nodded gravely, rummaged in the gasping Anahson’s pocket and brought out her teleporter. She injected the young Janus, who disappeared in a shimmering gleam of red light. With a small wave, she plunged her own teleporter into her thigh and vanished into the night. Clara didn’t have time to worry about whether they’d made it back to the TARDIS or not. She leaped to her feet and raced back over to the airlock. As she ran, she saw the Reaper looming in her peripheral vision. It hovered around where the Doctor and the Valeyard seemed to be bathed in a bright white light.

_Perhaps when we’re all dead..._

“Doctor!” she cried, as she made it back to the door, the mechanism turning slowly as it worked its way open. “It’s time!” Without her helmet, her words were flung uselessly into the tumultuous air.

_Out they’ll come a slithering, from underneath your bed._

She could hear flapping wings behind her as she attempted to put a lid on her fear and face the door. She had to do this, had to get the timeline to continue as they remembered it. She flinched when she realised what she had to do: anything it took.

By degrees, the door opened until she could see into Colonel Pink’s module beyond. She dug her feet in underneath a rock, stumbling to pick up a smaller stone, curling her fist around it. The winds buffeted her now, howling around her and tossing her hair all over the place. That was probably why the Doctor took a second to recognise her, stood as he was inside the entrance of the module, seeming so much younger to her than the man she had finally, properly kissed in the wardrobe only hours ago. He gawped, mouth dropping open.

“Clara?”

Without giving him time to say anything else, she dove forwards and clocked him over the head with the rock. “Sorry,” she said, under her breath, “but it’s for your own good.” The younger Doctor staggered away, blood seeping from the wound she’d given him. She turned away from the door and began to run back to her own Doctor, knowing that his past self would be able to hang on as the atmosphere vented from the ship until he was rescued by Colonel Pink.

She sprinted, and the ground beneath her feet began to tremble and shake. Smaller rocks on the ground vibrated, jumping and defying the planet’s gravity. It was time for them to get the hell out of here.

The Doctor and the Valeyard both lurched, the light from the Valeyard’s box warding the Reaper off, for now. It shimmered, threateningly close to pouring out uncontrolled as they both wavered. The Doctor spread his feet wide to keep his balance as the planet lurched. “Close the box!” he shouted to the Valeyard. The other Time Lord shook his head. “The time line is reasserted. Close it, you’re making it worse!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Clara running towards them, her helmet inexplicably missing.

He wasn’t the only one to spot her.

Realising it couldn’t neutralise the two Time Lords, the Reaper changed course and, with a mighty beat of its wings, soared upwards and away from them, circling to flank the young woman who was so focused on getting to the Doctor her head was down, an arm thrown out to stop the debris blocking her vision.

The Doctor let out a strangled cry of her name and raced towards her, just as the Valeyard finally snapped the box shut, cursing the unnecessary loss of energy. He took his opportunity and retreated towards the Diner TARDIS, sequestering his box back in his inner pocket just as he reached the door and yanked it open, the Diner’s bell chiming wildly and off-key.

Clara and the Doctor collided heavily into one another at speed as the howling winds reached a crescendo. They crashed to the ground and rolled, intertwined - once, twice - before coming to a halt. Clara yanked her teleporter out of her pocket as he struggled to do the same. The damn hypodermic was caught in the lining of his pocket. He looked down at the webbing causing the obstruction for a split second, making him miss Clara’s expression as her eyes widened in horror at something just over his left shoulder. He felt the downdraft of the Reaper’s wings behind him before he heard its screech, a shadow falling over them both. Suddenly, he felt a sharp prick of pain in his right arm and -

The TARDIS.

No.

 _No, no, no, no_.

The silence was painful. His ears echoed and rang, a whine of white noise from the sheer contrast between here and outside. The Doctor scrambled to his feet, looked across to the flight seat where a winded Ashildr and Anahson were propped up, panting loudly. The lights of the console room surged on as the emergency protocol kicked in, the time rotors churning dutifully as he had programmed them to do, once all the teleporters were aboard.

“Doctor?” Anahson wheezed.

“Where’s Clara?” Ashildr stood up, the blood draining from her face.

Dazed, the Doctor fingered Clara’s teleporter where it hung from his arm, as his other hand finally dragged his own from his pocket. His grip failed him as he sagged against the console, knees giving way. His mouth opened and closed in shock as his unused teleporter, as if in slow motion, fell from his grasp and clattered loudly onto the floor.

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. The Words of the Prophets

_‘And the sign said “The words of the Prophets_

_Are written on subway walls,_

_And tenement halls_

_And whispered in the sounds of silence.”’_

‘The Sound of Silence’ - Simon & Garfunkel

* * *

Suddenly the world was sideways. No, not sideways: he was on the floor. The Cloister bell pealed urgently as the lights in the roundels popped and sparked. Anahson and Ashildr crashed down too, sliding towards him as everything tilted.

That shouldn't have been possible, not with the inertial dampers. But never mind that right now because it clearly was, otherwise it wouldn’t be happening. Lots of things weren’t possible until they were, like Clara Oswald, wherever the hell she was now - not by his side, that was for certain - and her inbuilt affinity for saving him, over and over. She’d done it again and hadn’t even had the decency to teleport back home so he could thank her, or shout at her for being so stupid. Either or. He’d settle for either or right now. Instead, all he could do was pull her,  _her_ , teleporter from where it was still hanging uselessly out of his sleeve and fling it to the floor.

Shaking his head to clear the ringing, the Doctor pulled himself to his feet, struggling against the thrashing TARDIS. He could sense she was spinning out of control, being pulled towards something. The rift, it must be the rift. He swore in Gallifreyan under his breath as he took hold of the wheel and lever that would give him navigational access. He spun the wheel around, glanced over his shoulder to where Anahson was pulling herself up against the railing.

"Both of you," he ordered, "help." He left the wheel, pulled down the lever and tied it off with rope. Ashildr pulled herself along the console and activated the temporal stabiliser - of course she knew what to do, she'd been piloting her own with Clara for goodness knows how long - he bodily moved Anahson, holding her up as he pointed at the equaliser. "Push that up when I tell you, try to stay on your feet."

The stabiliser took the edge off the reeling and swaying but he still had to stand with his feet braced widely as he fought against the forces threatening to tear his old ship apart. She groaned, always the drama queen, as he tried to steer them away from the rift. Something primal and terrified attempted to force its way out of his throat but he clenched his jaw and kept it in. It was no good, this wasn’t going to work. He swung the nearest monitor round to him. The screen flashed at least ten different warnings, all with increasingly dire punctuation. If he wanted them and the TARDIS to survive, there was only one option for it: they were going in. "Hold on," he warned the others, "reverse the commands, now!”

“Doctor, we can’t!” Of course it was Ashildr, her eyes wide.

“We don’t have a choice,” he shouted, tone thunderous, “it’s into the rift or we get torn apart. Now do as I say!” His eyebrows furrowed as he focused intently on the feel of the TARDIS, almost electric across his skin now as she panicked and resisted his commands. Ashildr hesitantly reversed the transdimensional axis as Anahson clung to the equaliser, swinging it around until it faced in the opposite direction. He could sense it. Gold and shimmering and dreadful, embracing them as something rattled against the doors of the phone box. “Come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath, “I know you’re scared, I am too. But we’ll sort it out, we always do…”

With a final sigh and a rolling lurch that unsettled a pipe and shot steam across the opposite side of the console room, he felt something give and, all at once, everything calmed. They had passed through. The time rotors ground to a halt. They had landed.

_But where?_

With a final few tweaks and twists to her controls, the Doctor lay his palm flat on the console and rubbed gently. The old girl was exhausted. He sighed.

“Doctor, what the hell was that?” Ashildr demanded. “And where on earth is Clara?”

“Not on Earth, obviously,” he spat, “she used her teleporter to save me. The Reaper was going to -” he trailed off as he realised belatedly that the chances now were that he and Clara Oswald had never been further apart. He strode across to the doors. “Stay here, out of sight,” he growled, as he steeled himself to face whatever lay outside.

“We went through the rift?” Anahson was recovering herself slowly, pulling the thick space gloves off and tossing them onto the flight seat, still feeling claustrophobic in the suit that had almost become her coffin. “But what about Clara? What does that mean?” She looked over to Ashildr who shook her head minutely. Now wasn’t the time to be asking the Doctor those questions. Anahson was shocked to see tears streaking down the immortal woman’s face. Her mouth dropped open, horrified. “She’s gone?”

The Doctor drove their conversation into the background as he inched the door open, although Anahson’s question echoed around his brain. _She’s gone_. Apart from she couldn’t be gone. If Clara had been removed from time, if the Reaper had got her, he would absolutely know it. He wouldn’t be able to remember her. Her wide eyes filled with fear, the swift movement of her arm as she struck him before the Reaper could, the sting of the hypodermic needle intended to whisk her to safety being used instead on him, watching her expression as he teleported away... He stepped out onto cobblestone. So, they weren’t in The Void. Or circling a black hole. Something to be thankful for.  He gently and silently closed the door behind him as the image of a solitary figure in an anachronistic orange spacesuit laid on the Last Planet, scared and trembling, filled his every synapse. He blinked furiously. _Focus_. It was night-time wherever they had landed, no sign of the rift overhead as he took in their surroundings.

Of course. Of course this is where they would have ended up. His instructions to the TARDIS had been followed to the letter. His emergency protocol had prioritised getting Anahson home, or to at least an approximation of it. He, Clara and Ashildr could have figured something out between them but he’d wanted to make sure his Janus companion would have been somewhere safe to rebuild her young life if the worst had - predictably, come to think of it now - come to the worst.

_Trap Street._

He shuddered, overcome with memories which until recently had been so resolutely blocked he had once ended up back here out of sheer frustration, never realising the significance this place had. He walked forward a couple of steps, looking all around him as the features of the narrow street made themselves known in the darkness. The only question now was, considering they had been flung through a rift in time and space, which version of Trap Street was this?

An answer immediately presented itself as something moved behind him. The Doctor span on his heel, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun: three armed men emerged from behind the nearest building, torches trained on him and illuminating the TARDIS beyond. Warily, he waggled his fingers at them as though waving but his jaw set like steel and his voice lowered an octave as he spoke. “I’m the Doctor. Probably worth mentioning that I’m not having a particularly good day. Fair warning. Also, I’m a little bit lost and need to get back to where I was quite urgently. Would you happen to know which particular universe this is?”

Three clicks sounded as the weapons were cocked with unwavering aim.

The Doctor sighed heavily. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

* * *

The flash of red took him away, his illuminated face inside his helmet barely having time to register surprise. With any luck, he would realise that there was nothing he could have done to stop her and eventually forgive himself... Who was she kidding?  Still, he was safe and that was what mattered. Next up, trying to not be erased from history and destroying the universe as a result, thank you very much indeed.

The Reaper’s teeth clashed painfully at the space the Doctor had just departed, gnashing at thin air, close enough that she could smell the stench of its breath. The wind whistled through its wings as it reared up and Clara flung an arm out to protect her head as she rolled frantically out of the way of the razor-sharp talons that reached for her, just barely catching on her suit and ripping through the seal. Air rushed in as the ground seemed to fall away from under her, a crack zig-zagging through the rock as a massive seismic shock tore through the Last Planet.

Clara found herself skidding downwards, scrabbling and grasping for anything she could as all sense of what was up and what was any other direction abandoned her. Loose rocks and boulders overtook her as she managed to find her feet, running without seeing, stumbling, crawling, whatever it took to keep moving. She knew if she looked around to see where the Reaper was, it would all be over. A spur of rock sloped upwards in front of her and she sprinted as fast as her legs would carry her until she reached the highest point and flung herself forwards, using all the momentum she could muster. Suspended in the air for the briefest of seconds, she felt as though she had defied gravity itself, or - a horrible thought - had been plucked from the ground by the Reaper as an owl would gather up a mouse on a hunt.

Then she plummeted. The yawning chasm beneath her was dark and bottomless, rapidly swallowing her whole. Feeling a sudden, calming sense of inevitability, Clara closed her eyes and waited for death. Again. Either from above or from below, there wasn’t much she could do about it now. She thought of her class at Coal Hill, of her father and Gran and even Linda. Would she even be able to die when she got to the bottom? Or just lie there broken? She thought of Danny Pink, Ashildr, Anahson. Of all she’d achieved and the lives she’d saved. What if the Reaper found her first? Was that it roaring after her or was it the howling wind? Clara thought of the one life she’d saved countless times and felt a warm rush of contentment. _Not bad for an English teacher from Blackpool._ She scrunched her eyes shut tighter and thought as hard and as powerfully as she could, hoping that one day, somehow, he might hear her across time and space and find some peace. _Thank you._ A tear made its way out from behind her clenched eyelids, quickly whipped away in the maelstrom.

Her knees smacked hard into the tiles on the floor. Her fingers splayed as she let out a startled yell and braced herself too late for the unexpected impact. The force of it rattled through her knees and spine. Black and white, checkerboard, cool to the touch yet pulsing with life. Clara’s breath came in rough pants, a seasoned response she quickly got under control as she lifted her head, staring up at the mural of Elvis on the door in front of her. _What?_ Shakily, she pushed herself to her feet in a move so uncoordinated, her old yoga instructor would have given up there and then. She looked down at her spacesuit, feeling its bulky weight all at once, fingering the jagged tear from her close call. Clara brushed her hair out of her eyes and righted herself before pushing through into the console room.

The Valeyard was stood manning the controls to her ship and the sight repulsed her. He barely glanced up from his work as she stood there, staring. An alarm sounded across the room, the Cloister Bell echoing discordantly alongside it. Clara instinctively went onto high alert.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The Valeyard flickered his eyes towards her and reversed the lever in front of him, wrenching it upwards. “You’re welcome,” he growled, turning to struggle with the wheel. Clara frowned and walked carefully towards him, trying to work out what was happening, why she was still here.

“She’s fighting you, she doesn’t want to go where you’re telling her to go,” she realised, “is that why you saved me? To bend her to your will? Because I’ve got news for you, she does what she wants.”

“If that would make you feel more comfortable about being in my debt, by all means,” the Valeyard bit out, a vein throbbing in his head as he strained against the controls.

“It’s the rift -” the console room trembled and Clara teetered a bit against the movement. She took an unsteady step forward, reaching for the stabiliser without even realising it. “She’s being pulled into the rift, isn’t she?”

“It’s not a rift, it’s a tear.”

“Now’s hardly the time for semantics,” she snapped. Unconsciously, Clara had already activated the stabiliser, was pulling the monitor around to read its output. She could only translate a fraction of the data it revealed, but there was one thing that stood out: “You’re flying towards it...” She released her grip on the stabiliser as though it had burned her hand and stared at the man opposite her, a special kind of fury building up from within. “Why are you doing this? What are you even trying to achieve?”

“That, my dear, is for me to know and you to find out,” the Valeyard smirked, flipping a final lever with a flourish so that the time rotors began to churn above them. As he looked up at them with smug satisfaction, Clara took the chance to observe him, trying to see any part of the Doctor glimmering through this markedly different exterior. She just couldn’t see it. The Doctor wasn’t perfect, by any means, but even on his darkest days - and she’d been around for quite a few of them - she couldn’t picture him ever being as cold, unfeeling and unfamiliar as the creature standing in front of her now. Until she saw any evidence to the contrary, she would insist this was a different man entirely.

There was a moment of silence after the engines whined to a halt. Evidently, they had landed. The Valeyard turned to face her and Clara felt the distinct need to put the console between them, cautiously side-stepping away from him.

“Where are we?” she asked, hoping her voice came out sounding plucky rather than terrified.

“Home,” he replied, dark eyes shining. With a click of his long fingers, the doors opened. Clara felt a lurch of irrational betrayal that her ship would do that for him when she’d barely convinced the TARDIS to do it for her; the machine still stubbornly refused to respond to Ashildr unless the trick was farcically mis-timed, the doors opening just before or hours after the initial attempt. They used to laugh about it. The Valeyard folded his arms across his chest and angled his chin at her. “Out,” he ordered, in a tone that brooked no arguments, “and keep your hands where I can see them.” Reluctantly, Clara walked towards the doors, her eyes narrowing as she passed him. She just needed to bide her time, that was all. Sooner or later, the Valeyard would look away or slip up, and she would take her chance. She just had be patient, and stay alive - or as close to it as she could get - until her opportunity came.

* * *

The transport ship settled in a swirl of dust and sand, its cloaking device shimmering off as the need for subterfuge subsided. Its landing gear creaked and groaned as the metal contracted quickly in the planet’s heavy atmosphere. The thick mist which ebbed around the vessel was disrupted as the disembarkation ramp slowly lowered, allowing High Councillor Lonkath, of the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of, well, _formerly_ in the constellation of Kasterborous - it was hopefully a temporary relocation - to sweep majestically down and onto the planet’s rugged surface, his cloak and robes fanning out in the stiff breeze that cut through the towering rock formations to the south. Behind him, his most trusted guard followed. Maytal, swarthy and well-built, cut a more impressive figure than his master but he was willing only to follow orders, having no appetite himself for the trappings of power. With a curt nod, Lonkath indicated Maytal keep watch over the ship and set off alone, tracking his progress towards the designated coordinates on a simple electronic device that blipped and flashed on his wrist.

He found himself in a sparse clearing, flat and featureless. The brown sky almost melded with the dirt underfoot, making it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Double checking his NavCom, Lonkath raised his eyebrows and waited. Non-corporeal quantum beings didn’t necessarily have the best appreciation of punctuality and this meeting would be worth exercising some patience. Lonkath shook off the feeling that he was being watched. Their departure from Gallifrey had been intricately planned, removed from all records before it had even happened. No one could possibly have followed them and, if the General and her ilk did find out about this little excursion, it would be far too late for them to do anything about it.

There was a shift in the air around him, a warmth that grew and gathered. The mist hovering close to the ground seemed to congregate momentarily, and then disperse. He looked around, turning slightly as he frowned. No, it wasn’t his imagination, the mist was darkening. It undulated around him, hissing sibilantly as it rose into a roughly humanoid form, a diplomatic gesture if ever he’d seen one. The smokey column shimmered as though waiting and Lonkath inclined his head downwards deferentially.

“Greetings be upon you, Legion of the Quantum Shade. I come in the spirit of peace.” The cloud wavered as though blown by an unseen breeze.

“Greetings be upon you, High Councillor Lonkath, Castellan of the Time Lords of Gallifrey. We welcome you in the spirit of peace.” Formalities out the way, Lonkath waited as the Shade rippled, as though consulting internally. “What do the Time Lords need of us?” the Shade eventually blew. “Our business was concluded.”

“As you may recall, you entered into a contract with Lord President Rassilon,” Lonkath began.

“That contract was satisfactorily fulfilled,” the Shade hissed, the consonants echoing and elongating into an almost physical sensation across the Time Lord’s skin, “a soul was offered to us. We accepted the exchange.” Lonkath stared into the cloud. If anything, he would say the quantum essence in front of him was being defensive. Why was it that whenever the human Clara Oswald was involved, higher species seemed to forget themselves?

“I am afraid to say,” Lonkath adopted a tone as contrite and concerned as possible, “that this may not be true. You have been deceived. We were all deceived.”

“Impossible,” the column of black smoke thickened, rose up and towered over him, “a soul was harvested. The ledger will reflect -”

“Check the ledger,” Lonkath urged, “and tell me what you find.” There was a rumbling of discontent as the mass churned inwards, patches of light showing through, sections of transparency appearing and disappearing.

“There is an anomaly,” came the reluctant response. “Explain.”

“The soul was extracted from time, the moment before you harvested it. Search your senses, and you will feel the impossibility. Both alive and dead, both harvested and not. And, I am sorry to say, it is not likely the soul will be fully returned to you. The terms of your contract have been breached.”

“Yet also met,” Lonkath could almost hear the Quantum Shade thinking. “You have come to us to offer a new soul? It would need to be of equal value -” a momentary pause as a hurried whispering came from within, “...but that is not possible. It is the same soul we desire.”

Lonkath did his best not to smile as his plan played out exactly as he had imagined. One did not simply _order_ a Quantum Shade to do your bidding, they were ruthless negotiators. But now he knew he held the upper hand: call it supply and demand. “I am sorry,” he said, “I was only asked to deliver the news, to offer our sincere apologies and ensure you appreciate this is not President Rassilon’s doing. I must leave. I cannot risk being discovered, so few know of Gallifrey’s return.” He held his hands out and turned as though to leave, affecting an air of genuine regret. He had barely taken one step when the cloud blossomed around him, reconstituting in his path.

“You would do well to remember, Time Lord, that we are legion. We are timeless. We are not easily led.” Oh, the Shade was angry now, all cumulonimbus. Lonkath paused. Counted the seconds as they passed.

“There may be an option,” he offered, reaching into his robes to bring out a flat, translucent stone. “The soul you were promised, it is unfortunately tied to that of a Time Lord, even in its current state. I know, highly irregular. Barely a Time Lord, to be clear. A rebel, a criminal, not deserving of the title. If you needed to harvest them both to secure the one you seek, no one would mourn the loss.” Lonkath focused on the stone, releasing a small allowance of regeneration energy to sweeten the deal. It glowed gold and began to evaporate into a thin trickle of light rising up towards the Shade. “You will not be able to trace the soul you seek, not while it is time looped, but this -” he waved his hand and pushed the golden wisp towards the cloud, “this is how we Time Lords can trace the one who calls himself ‘the Doctor’. Find him, and you will find your errant soul.” The Shade reached out a tendril of black smoke and touched it to the golden light, absorbing it instantly. A portion of the dark cloud broke away from the rest, thickening into a recognisable shape; curved beak, broad wings that flapped experimentally, lifting spindly legs and pointed talons high into the air above them. In a hazy flash, it let out an almighty screech, much louder than its size would allow, and disappeared.

“It is done,” hissed the remaining Shade, as it sank back down into the mist that rested in a heavy layer around Councillor Lonkath’s feet. Their negotiation, it seemed, was complete.

* * *

Ashildr took a deep breath as she stepped out of the TARDIS and onto the cobbles of the narrow street she had once called home. Behind her, Anahson did the same. Whilst her own dim memories assailed her, Ashildr realised that this moment must be even more surreal for the young Janus, whose whole childhood was tied into the teetering old beamed shops and dwellings surrounding them. She gave her a smile that tried to be reassuring as a sliver of guilt rippled down her spine. She painfully recalled the bargains she had made to keep the street safe, the damage she had done and the lives she had allowed the Shade to take in the name of the greater good. She wiped the traces of tears from her face and pulled her expression into an unfeeling masque.

One of the masked soldiers indicated they walk over to where the Doctor was stood, allowing a moment for Anahson to gently close the TARDIS door and lock it with her key.  They had been surprised when the knock had come, only to find an armed man beckoning them outside. Still, it made sense, she supposed: there was no point in them getting separated in a strange universe.  Although she and Anahson may have been safe in the TARDIS, the Doctor had known as well as she that the chances of them staying put and just allowing him to be taken were slim to none. They would have had to set out and rescue him but wouldn’t have known the slightest thing about the world they were blundering into.

She looked up at the Time Lord in question, grateful he’d bargained for them to have five minutes to change out of their bulky spacesuits. He had carefully shucked out of his, it lay crumpled on the ground next him, a vivid orange reminder of the fact their group had already been torn apart. Ashildr ground her teeth, an old habit she thought she had abandoned long ago.

She had failed Clara. She had let her friend down.

Instead of being practical and useful, instead of being the voice of reason, all she had managed to do was deliver dire warnings without substance. As soon as Clara and the Doctor had been reunited, she should have _done_ something. For all her suspicions a catastrophe would happen, she had not acted, had instead allowed the adventure to rumble on unchecked, picking up momentum. If she was honest, she had been caught up in the all-consuming drama of it all - so much for millennia of experience - it was still so difficult not to be sucked along with them in their vortex of dependency. From the Shadow Proclamation to Skaro, from Haida to Gallifrey to the Last Planet. Mistake after mistake, warning sign after warning sign unheeded; the Doctor regaining his memory, Clara’s insistence on helping him before returning to Trap Street, defying the Time Lords, sparking political upheaval and, for the love of God, deciding to _create a bloody paradox_ in order to try to force the Valeyard’s hand. How could she have been so stupid? And now look at them. Rifts, Reapers and a universe on the brink. Hopefully, she wasn’t too late. Hopefully, there was still time to put this right.

The Doctor clapped his hands suddenly, as though he was keen to be off. The noise echoed across the nearby brick wall and Ashildr prepared a frown but relaxed as she realised he had successfully attracted the attention of the weapons away from herself and Anahson. Good, he was thinking clearly, she had been worried he was going to lose the plot. Still, perhaps that was to come later, who knew what was bubbling under the surface: his shoulders and the line of his jaw were unspeakably tense, like he was holding his rage at bay. She would have to be prepared, just in case. The Doctor glanced quickly down at her, a twitch of muscle under his eye seeming to ask if she was ready. Ashildr arched an eyebrow and gave a minute nod in response.

“Right then!” the Doctor straightened his back, raising to his full height as he ran his hands down the sleeves of his velvet jacket, for some reason slipping one under his cuff and tracing the skin on his wrist, as though he was remembering something. She idly wondered whether the soldiers had noticed that their prisoner was now the one giving the orders. The Doctor leaned down towards Anahson and stage-whispered to her out of the side of his mouth, “I’ve always wanted to say this…” Ashildr groaned inwardly. She knew exactly what he was going to say and there was no way to stop him. The Doctor cleared his throat and gestured grandly...

“Take me to your leader!”

* * *

They watched as the transport lifted hesitantly from the planet’s surface, sending the mist that hovered close to the ground into a swirling frenzy. Silently, even though their shielding had kept them hidden for the duration of Lonkath’s meeting with the Shade and their communications array was offline, the General reached over and adjusted a dial on the main display of their Bow Ship. Gastron, folded uncomfortably into the co-pilot’s seat, glanced over at her.

“He hasn’t set a course back to Gallifrey,” he murmured. The General sighed and leaned back in her seat.

“Get a trace running,” she ordered, “because there’s only one other place I can imagine he’s going to go.” Gastron nodded and pressed a number of buttons on the console, tying in their navigation system with the tracker their embedded Captain had stealthily placed upon Councillor Lonkath’s vessel. The ship in question had cleared the cover of the cloud and was ascending to the stars but, before they could pursue, they had one more bit of business to complete.

As if on cue, a small haze of black cloud gathered in the centre of the cockpit and both soldiers turned towards it. Their timely arrival on the planet where Lonkath had arranged to meet the Quantum Shade had presented them with the opportunity to put forward their own case about what the Shade should do regarding the Clara Oswald situation before the Councillor had landed. Now all they had to do was await the Shade’s response. The General stood up and bowed to the haze as it wisped and undulated in the air between them, shapeless.

“Thank you for returning,” she said, “and for maintaining secrecy regarding our presence.” Gastron pushed himself to his feet as well, trying to avoid banging his head on the low ceiling of the vessel. It wasn’t really a ship built for formalities. He winced as his knee banged into something sharp.

“The internal machinations of the Time Lords are of no concern to us,” hissed the Shade, “but we are disheartened that Councillor Lonkath has not represented the same facts that you and your subordinate travelled here to share. He withheld key information.”

“Indeed,” agreed the General, “there is little point in you returning Clara Oswald to the Extraction Chamber if her untimely removal from events could lead to the Doctor’s failure to apprehend the Valeyard. If the fabric of time is destroyed as a result, you will harvest no souls whatsoever. Clara Oswald, the Shade, Gallifrey, the universe, all of it will cease to exist. Will never have existed.”

“We are aware.” The Shade hovered for a moment and the General risked a glance at Gastron. He nodded to her, hopeful. “Our emissary has departed using the energy signature the other Time Lord provided,” the Shade eventually continued, “we will judge from what we find how best to respond to your proposition.” The General inclined her head as she considered this answer; the Shade was shrewd when it came to contracts, this was probably the closest to their request for a delay to the harvest they were going to get.

“I appreciate it,” she said, shaking off the thought that war was at least simpler than diplomacy; the uncertainty of conversation still unnerved her, “Gallifrey thanks you for your assistance.” The Shade gave one last ripple and dispersed, thinning out until nothing remained. Gastron gratefully sank back down into his seat.

“That’s it?” he asked, flinging a belated, “Ma’am,” on the end of his question at her sharp look. The General took her own seat, brought up the navigational charts on the screen projected across their opaqued windshield. The small dot that represented Lonkath’s vessel blipped in the centre of the image, making its way to a cluster of asteroids not too far away.

“Our work is far from done,” she intoned, “we might have to wait to learn the fate of the Doctor and Miss Oswald but we’ve at least given them a chance. Now, we have to assume that Lonkath has no idea we’re on his trail. I suspect his arrogance will be his own undoing,” Gastron fired up the engines and confirmed the course the General had just finished plotting. The General stared at the chart for a beat. “Lonkath is going to lead us straight to Rassilon,” she said, grimly, “but I fear his plans will not be as easy to undermine.” Gastron grunted his agreement and pressed down on the thrusters.  With a burst of shimmering heat, the Bow Ship took to the air. 

* * *

Clara Oswald gazed up at the impressive gas giant painted across the sky. Even at this distance, she could make out the storms that thundered and curled across its molten surface, kaleidoscopic. On Jupiter, from Earth, they had been called ‘spots’ and, at this precise moment, she couldn’t think of a less accurate description if she tried. These things were sheer power, mesmerising. She stumbled on a tuft of grass, or whatever the plants were that pushed through the boggy ground, and forced herself to look back down to her feet, following the path the Valeyard was trudging as he unerringly led them on a meandering route that seemed to intentionally avoid the worst of the mud. He knew this place, that much was clear. Not that there was that much to know, from the look of it. The horizon stretched out with barely a deviation. The moon was unremarkable. Her eyes skipped over the land that rolled out in front of them as though they had decided of their own accord there was nothing worth focusing on. Clara frowned, slowing to a halt. She had felt that sensation before.

The Valeyard was marching ahead and she had to trot to catch up to him but, in the back of her mind, Clara began to count.

 _One, two, three_ …

She wondered what his plan was for her. Clearly, there was one otherwise he wouldn’t have rescued her, wouldn’t be tolerating her presence now. She got the distinct impression she wasn’t going to like it when it was revealed.

_Four, five, six…_

The Valeyard came to a stop, flung a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure she was close by and hadn’t done a runner. She waved a dismissive hand in his direction. Still wearing her spacesuit, she felt bulky and out of place. If he didn’t want to allow her the time to change out of it then, frankly, he could wait.

_Seven, eight._

_Oh._

And there it was, the misdirection circuit. Trying to hide a smile and feeling more than a little clever, Clara squinted beyond were the Valeyard was stood, his foot tapping impatiently in the dirt. As she focused, she suddenly realised that he was in front of a door. Just a door, stood there in the middle of nowhere, nothing else supporting it. A wooden door, painted green and apropos of nothing. The Valeyard noticed the direction of her stare and actually looked surprised, she was pleased to note. She reached his side and passed him, her curiosity getting the better of her. Carefully, the mud sucking at her spaceboots, she walked around the door and inspected it from all sides.

“What is this place?” she asked, deciding that obvious questions about completely ridiculous doors probably needed a bit of a build up.

“Eta Rho,” the Valeyard replied, watching her closely.

“Eta what?”

“The gas giant is Eta Rho,” he repeated, as if he was speaking to a particularly dense toddler. Maybe there were some things he and the Doctor had in common, Clara conceded. “This is its moon, the secret shame of the Time Lords.”

“Why? Door fetishes taboo on Gallifrey, are they?” She asked, looking beyond the green door to where six other equally inexplicable doors stood. For some reason, a black door to the far left caught her eye. It seemed different from the others, more inviting somehow, and it certainly wasn’t because it reminded her of 10 Downing Street.

Unsurprisingly, the Valeyard ignored her question. “This is where I was found and raised. Until the people here discovered I was a Time Lord and sent me back to Gallifrey.”

“So when you say this is ‘home’, you mean it,” Clara said, slowly. Was the big, bad Valeyard opening up to her? Why?

“More of a home than Gallifrey, where I was outcast, sent to live in the Shadow House and denied my right to regenerations,” the Valeyard looked away and Clara tried to dampen the rush of compassion she felt for him, she’d seen enough of Gallifrey to know growing up there was not easy. Heck, look at the Doctor’s troubled relationship with his own people; wiping them out of existence and punishing himself resolutely for doing so, his unbridled joy at being able to save them yet still having the foresight to refuse to allow them to return on Trenzalore, despite everything it cost him. The thought of the Doctor cleared her suddenly cloudy thoughts and she stepped away from the man in black.

“So you don’t like the Time Lords, get in line,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “We know you’re up to something more than just taking yourself on a trip down memory lane, you might as well tell me,” she gestured to the horizon, “there’s no one else here.”

“Not anymore,” the Valeyard said, darkly.

“...What happened to them, the people who lived here?” Clara tilted her head and tried to read his expression. The coldness she saw there filled her with dread. “You killed them.”

“I prefer the term ‘edited’. No murder, just a judicious rewriting of history.”

Clara took another step away from him feeling the green door against her back and she cringed. Talk about managing to back yourself into a corner when there weren’t any actual corners around. “Why? Why would you do that? They helped you.” The Valeyard watched her through narrowed eyes.

“Which door?” He asked, suddenly.

“What?”

“One of these doors is calling to you. Which one?”

“Why?”

“So the link _is_ there,” he snarled, and Clara got the distinct impression she’d just slipped up and given him information he didn’t have before. Again, she felt that clouding of her thoughts and she raised a hand to her temple as though to brush it away. _Hang on_. Her eyes widened.

“That’s you,” she accused, “you’re trying to read my mind. Stop it.” There it was again, a pushing, an unwelcome pressure creeping behind her eyes. This is why he’d shared some of his past with her, she realised; he had been trying to establish a connection. “No, I won’t let you,” she made as though to run but in an instant, the Valeyard was in front of her, blocking her way, a vice-like grip on her shoulder as he pushed her back sharply into the door. She struggled, but it was no good. His other hand reached up to her temple, two fingers pressing against her skin roughly. Clara did her best to throw up a mental block, like the Doctor had once tried to show her when they had been sat in the library together one quiet evening between adventures. She cast her mind back, tried to focus on that memory, put up as much interference as possible.

“Focus on one thing,” the Doctor had told her, his voice low, face soft in the comforting, diffuse light of the fire as their books lay abandoned on the floor beside them. She remembered the feel of his fingers threading gently through hers where they rested in her lap. “Focus on the memory of something real so intently, so vividly, that all of your mental energy is being used to recreate it in your mind.” He shuffled closer towards her, grunting a little as he crossed his legs underneath him. Their knees brushed as she closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She remembered her pulse picking up, her mouth drying to the point she had to lick her lips. “Of course,” came the Doctor’s voice, a little cracked and nervous because he had noticed what his proximity was doing to her, he always noticed, “I’m a bit rubbish at this, so I could accidentally be hypnotising you instead. Luckily, I speak chicken so I think we’ll be okay if you start clucking.”

She chuckled fondly. “Shut the cluck up, idiot,” she heard herself say, “and teach me.”

His own laugh was cut off abruptly as the pain in her temple increased and she gasped, her eyes snapping open in her memory. The Doctor was still sat opposite her, his own eyes wide in surprise.

“Clara? What’s -”

The Valeyard appeared at the other side of the room, inserting himself forcefully into her thoughts, and Clara struggled to her feet, rushing to put herself between him and her recollection of the Doctor, who had jumped to stand glowering behind her. She could feel his hand curling around her elbow, trying to hold her back.

“Get the hell out of my head,” she ordered fiercely as her eyes flashed at the intrusion. She pushed back against the pain and gritted her teeth as a dozen unfamiliar images raced through her mind, searing hot. The Valeyard’s thoughts: this was a two way street. “You want me to lead you to him,” she bit out, straining, “he flew through the rift too and you don’t know where he is.” Blindly, she reached behind her and grasped the Doctor’s waiting hand. He may have just been a psychic construct, but he was exactly what she needed. “Well, tough,” she spat as she gathered up her strength, “never going to happen.”

She found herself remembering her taekwondo training, from when she used to take her Year Sevens to the sports centre: _use the momentum of your enemy’s attack against them_. She focused intently on the images the Valeyard couldn’t help but share, allowing them to overwhelm her. She felt him stumble as she eased down her barrier, welcomed each vision more quickly than he was willing to release them until she was taking without permission and he was the one desperately trying to block her.

In a blink, she was once more on the moon, back against the door, her hand circled tightly around the Valeyard’s wrist as she wrenched his fingers from her temple. His breath came shallowly in bursts of exertion as those dark, haunted eyes shone with alarm. He crumpled to the ground, letting out a strangled cry before he seemingly passed out. Clara’s mouth hung open as she prodded at her temple with her own fingers, checking for damage. She’d done it. Had she done it? What _had_ she done, exactly? No time for questions. She pushed herself away from the door, still bewildered as she took in the prone Time Lord lying in the mud. Thinking quickly, scanning the horizon, she tried to formulate a plan.

The TARDIS was parked a significant distance away; it had taken them a while to walk to this exact spot. Clara made a face - this wasn’t ideal. But, in the absence of a better option, she needed to get off this rock, find the others and try to find a way to share with them what she’d just seen in the Valeyard’s mind. Those disparate images might just hold the key to stopping him, if only she could hold onto them for long enough. Speaking of keys… She kneeled down next to the unconscious Time Lord and patted down the smooth lining of his jacket and trousers; seven doors would probably need unlocking with something.

_Ah ha!_

Her fingers closed around something metallic and she eased it out of his trouser pocket, holding it up to the light. It didn’t really resemble a key per se, looking as it did more like a Gallifreyan pendant of some kind, silver, engraved with the tell-tale circular script of the Time Lords. She tightened her fist around it and, with her other hand frisked the lining of his coat. She could see a small box hidden away in there but whenever she reached for it, it was though her hand had forgotten how to function and refused to take it. _Damn it_. She didn’t want to risk delaying any further and so pushed herself back up to her feet, shifting them where they had sunk into the mud.

The mud.

Her footprints would be a dead giveaway as to which door she’d gone through and she needed to reduce the Valeyard’s chances of choosing the right one first time. Stopping him before he found the Doctor again, whatever he needed him for, sounded like a good option. Giving herself a decent head start sounded like an even better one. Methodically, she ran up to each door, one eye on the Valeyard as she worked as quickly as she dared. As soon as she’d reached each one, she walked carefully backwards within her own footprints, trying to not disrupt the patterns in the sodden ground.

With a tilt of her head, she admired her handy work before finally, deliberately, approaching the black door that had caught her eye earlier. How could she even be sure this was the right one? She raised her hand to it and rested it on the wood. It felt warm to her touch, the same way her old bedroom door had when she’d tracked the unconscious Doctor down on the TARDIS all that time ago on Haida. She knew. This was the door that would take her back to him. There was no keyhole, rather a symbol in circular Gallifreyan etched into the wood. Clara held the key over the etching and tried to get the patterns to match up.

With an anti-climactic _click,_ the door cracked open. A swirling light, a whole spectrum of colours that made her wince with how vivid and hyperreal they seemed, shone from beyond. _Okay, here goes nothing_ , she thought to herself as, with a final furtive glance to where the Valeyard lay - still unmoving - she pushed against the wood and stepped over the threshold. In an instant, every cell of her body, every atom, disintegrated and Clara Oswald was gone. The black door silently closed behind her.

* * *

Something was wrong with London. That was the first thing Anahson noticed as they were led through the deserted streets. She’d spent nearly ten years living in the city and, while Trap Street had been understandably different from its host  - not least in terms of affordable rent - she still considered herself a Londoner as well as a Janus. It was more than just the refuge she and her mother had sought, it was the first real home she had known. And now she could feel that something was missing. As they trudged along the pavement a fine rain beat down upon them giving the streets an ethereal sheen and misting in the air around them. It was cold and the usual neon throb of the city was absent. Above them, a large bird flapped its wings and settled on a flickering streetlamp. Few buildings had lights on, most of the shops and ground level houses were boarded up. A few streets away a plume of thick black smoke spewed from a church and she thought she could spot what looked like bombed out buildings further up the road. She pulled her hood more firmly over her head and suppressed a shudder. It was the people, she realised. London was its people; a hardy bunch of defiant, diverse, opinionated loudmouths, for the most part. Millions of them. And they didn’t back down, they never backed down. Anything could, and had, been flung at the city and it had barely stopped them in their tracks, so where were they now? What had happened on this version of Earth that was so horrible even the Londoners stayed home?

They had reached a flight of stairs and the soldiers indicated they should head down. A graffiti-laden Transport for London sign declared that this was Bethnal Green tube station. The Doctor led the way in front of her, striding down the steps behind two of the soldiers as Ashildr and the third masked soldier brought up the rear. Unseen, the bird that had followed them from Trap Street made as if to roost atop a broken sign of an abandoned corner shop that proudly declared it sold ‘cigs, booze and things’. They made their way down the staircase and Anahson realised that there was a light coming from the tunnel itself beyond the powered down turnstiles and an accompanying warmth that could only come from the presence of people. They passed through the foyer and its out of order Oyster Card machines, copies of the Evening Standard strewn on the floor and trampled, bearing footmarks and tears. Anahson paused just before they entered the Eastbound tunnel, almost causing Ashildr to run into the back of her.

“What is it?” Ashildr asked. Anahson pointed at the off-white tiled wall, illuminated momentarily by a flickering light that seemed to be caused by a fire burning somewhere in the tunnel beyond. Ashildr looked at the writing Anahson had noticed and gave a sharp intake of stale air.

“Doctor -”

“Keep moving,” the rear soldier muttered, pushing her in the back. The Doctor turned around, still half walking. He raised his eyebrows at Anahson and she pointed at the graffiti sprawled messily on the wall:

 **_The Hybrid is coming_** **.**

The Doctor stopped in his tracks then went as if to approach the wall but was blocked by his guard.

“What does it mean, Doctor?” Anahson asked as they were nudged onwards. But the Doctor did not answer, his face cast into a thoughtful scowl, shoulders hunched as though he had the weight of at least one world bearing down on them. They entered the Eastbound tunnel and Anahson couldn’t help but stare in wonder at the scene unfolding in front of her. Along the platform and across the powered down tracks were scores and scores of people. Mattresses and sheets were piled on the ground, with yet more sheets and blankets strung across the width of the tunnel on lengths of rope, hastily erected attempts at segregation and privacy. Periodically, there were torches affixed to the walls, both electric and naked flame, providing an almost homely glow. Their slow walk along the narrow pathway that had been left on the platform attracted a lot of turned heads, muted whispers. Someone, somewhere, was quietly strumming a guitar.

“It reminds me of the Blitz,” Ashildr said, quietly.

“But what are they hiding from?” Anahson whispered back.

The Doctor finally spoke: “We’re not the only ones who have come through that rift,” he said, darkly, “if there’s a weakness in the fabric of time...Well, you name it. The past, the future. Who’s to say what’s slipping through?” His guilt was palpable.

They had reached a small door that was guarded by two more soldiers, stood on high alert. The leading soldier whispered into one of their ears - a password of some kind - and they parted to allow access to the office beyond. He rapped sharply on the door and, without awaiting a response, pushed the Doctor, Anahson and Ashildr inside.

The small office had been reappropriated as a command centre of sorts. Maps and papers lined every available surface, scribbled notes annotating the streets of London. Diagrams of strange alien lifeforms were pinned to overflowing notice boards, giving the impression of quite the military campaign if it weren’t for the obvious lack of budget. At the far end of the room, a completely out of place inspirational poster of a kitten - the caption of which advised the viewer to ‘hang in there, baby!’ - took pride of place above a cluttered desk. On the one available section of the desk not covered with trinkets and disassembled alien technology, atop a precarious pile of books rested a pair of delicately heeled boots. Anahson could only imagine the expressions on the three of their faces as they tracked upwards from the boots to a plush, Victorian purple jacket and accompanying ornate brooch until they reached the smirking face of the Mistress.

“Well,” Missy drawled, her eyes glittering madly, “you took your bloody time, didn’t you?”

* * *

The Doctor stared at Missy, his hands shaking as he tried to control his anger. He ignored the part of himself that was glad the Valeyard hadn’t killed her and focused instead on the bit that was apoplectic she had probably been helping him concoct this mad plan in the first place.

“Missy,” he growled, a desperate tightness entering his voice without his permission, “fancy seeing you here.”

“Now before you get all uppity, I’d like to point out that I’m as much a victim here as anyone else,” Missy slid her feet off the desk and stood up, stretching like a cat.

“Is that so?”

“There I was, minding my own business in my _rightfully_ commandeered TARDIS,” she shot a look at Ashildr, “when what should happen but - ‘blip!’ - torn asunder by the Valeyard’s little box of tricks, found myself in a very interesting neighbourhood indeed. But never mind that right now,” she had walked towards the Doctor and placed her hands on his shoulders firmly. “I am so proud of you,” she stood up on her tiptoes and pressed two quick kisses to his cheeks, one after the other.

“Don’t test me Missy, not today,” the Doctor flinched at her closeness but refused to give her the satisfaction of moving away.

“But look at you!” Missy crowed, “All angry and flustered, the Valeyard back, universes - plural! - being ripped to pieces. Clara Oswald has really done a number on you, hasn’t she? You two kids have done better than I could have hoped. Where is she?  Surely you’ve not misplaced her again? And after all that work I did to keep you together, too! If she’s not being killed by Tweety-Pie or forgotten completely, she’s… what was it this time?” The Doctor swallowed, his face darkening exponentially. Ashildr stepped forward, her hand on his arm.

“Leave it Missy,” she warned, “and stop trying to distract us. We need answers; you’ve got as much at risk here as we have.”

“You weren’t always this boring,” whined Missy, and the Doctor narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Ashildr. “Oh, come off it, you really think you were the only Time Lord she asked to travel with?” Missy released his shoulders, “I was more receptive. We had a blast, didn’t we sweetheart? Well, until she got tired of me testing the limits of that Mire chip inside her head.”

Anahson looked at Ashildr, confused. “She kept trying to kill me,” Ashildr muttered as the Doctor stepped away from Missy and started to peruse the information tacked onto the walls, running a hand through his hair, “it really wasn’t a healthy arrangement.”

“Missy,” the Doctor suddenly asked, “how long have you been here? Are you -” he paused before shaking his head a little as though to clear a ridiculous thought, “are you _protecting_ these people?”

“How _dare_ you?” Missy’s hand went to her throat as though mortally offended but the Doctor saw a flash of something at once familiar yet also foreign in her eyes. She was tired, he realised. And maybe, terrifyingly, just a little bit scared. He pursed his lips and looked at her more closely before turning back to face the wall.

“Those people outside,” he mused, “they’re seeking sanctuary here. They feel safe, near you.” Ashildr let out an unladylike snort and the Doctor almost smiled, “I would hardly believe it myself but then I’ve never underestimated your abilities when it comes to self-preservation, Missy. They might not know they’re being your human shields but they feel safer regardless because you’ve been fighting off whatever comes through in order to stay alive. And you’ve been winning.” He took a pin out of the wall from in between a newspaper article about the sudden appearance of a Roman Emperor in a suburb of York and a detailed sketch of a Mondasion Cyberman, and held a card up towards Missy, his eyebrows climbing his forehead rapidly. “A woolly mammoth on Tottenham Court Road?” he asked incredulous and, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, a tiny bit jealous.

“We called him Bruno, I wish we could have kept him,” she blustered before her expression turned serious, “but it’s getting worse. As fun as it’s been killing off all and sundry, using up UNIT as cannon fodder,” she waved her hand to dismiss his frown, “the fabric of time is weakening. Every time something new comes through the rift, there are more leaks. As much as I despise everyone and everything in every single universe, I’d much prefer there to be at least one left for me to terrorise.”

“I don’t understand,” Anahson said, coming very close to raising her hand. “What does a rift do? Where are they coming from?”

“We’re now in an alternative universe,” the Doctor grimaced, “the rifts open up a bridge between realities. Time, space, parallel worlds - you name it - they’re all interlinked but those connections are normally closed off to us. _Should_ be closed off. And any time a rift is accidentally formed, it should collapse completely like the one we travelled through did, like the one on the Last Planet would have once we had left, once the threat of the paradox has passed.” The Doctor walked behind Missy now, building up his theory. It was as though no one else was in the room, didn’t matter if they were. He was thinking out loud now, building his hypothesis. “But if they are opening up any old where, it means anything can fall through, end up in a different universe or at a different time like poor old Bruno,” he glanced down at the polaroid of the bewildered mammoth. “This has to be the Valeyard’s doing. He’s creating the rifts somehow, he must be using a massive energy source to link the universes.  But even his rifts aren’t stable, it’s a power no one can control. And they’ll be feeding into each other, they’re drawing energy from whatever passes through. They’re liable to either fall apart or monumentally expand, taking whatever they’re connected to with them.”

“Meaning this world,” Ashildr said, the gravity of what they were facing sinking in, “and our own, the universe we came from. And god knows how many more.”

The Doctor turned to Missy suddenly, his hand rubbing over his mouth and chin in frustration, “Missy, you said you came here via his box of tricks. I saw that box. I felt what it was. You need, just this once, to tell me the truth,” he took a deep breath. “What’s powering it?”

Missy fluttered her eyelashes at him coquettishly and the Doctor felt his hearts sink. He had suspected the answer back on the Last Planet when the Valeyard had failed to attack him with the light that had poured from within the small metal container. It had just refracted away from him, planted the seed of his worst fear. The immaculate Time Lady sidled up to him and pressed her hand against his cheek. This time, he did flinch. That gesture didn’t belong to her. As he pulled away, Missy’s eyes twinkled. “Doctor, Doctor, Doctor,” she sighed, enjoying dragging this out, “don’t pretend you don’t already know. What could be a more powerful energy source than the fabled Hybrid? Moments of beautiful destruction wreaked by you and the missus, taken out of time and locked away for safe-keeping?”

Whatever the Doctor was about to say was lost as Anahson suddenly let out a cry of alarm and crumpled to the floor in a heap, her hands clutching her head tightly. Missy looked down at her in disgust as Ashildr dropped to her knees to try and help. “Well,” Missy snarked, pulling a face, “that’s just rude. I was building up to the big finale.”

The Doctor joined Ashildr on the floor, helping her to support his young companion as she struggled against Ashildr’s grasp. He noticed her inhibitor seemed to glow in the harsh fluorescent light of Missy’s office. It hadn’t done that before and suddenly he was kicking himself for not getting the horrible device removed as soon as he’d seen it on Haida, if only he’d been thinking clearly. While it might not have worked as intended on the Slaver planet, who knew what damage its electronic tendrils had been doing to her brain in the meantime.

“I’m okay,” Anahson said, through teeth gritted in pain. “Something has come through. Nearby.”

“Of course,” the Doctor groaned as he soothed his hand over Anahson’s hair sadly for a moment. She was only twenty years old and this was all his fault, the rift must be playing havoc with her senses. From his position on the floor, he looked up at Missy.

“Rift warning system, that could be useful,” she mused.

“They’ve all been coming through on Trap Street?” He rose to his feet, not liking one bit the way Missy was watching Anahson, as if she had suddenly realised her value.

“This one’s all yours,” she smiled, “I’ve done my fair share of fighting. Fingers crossed for something juicy for you. A Zygon, perhaps. Feel free to take some of my army with you if you like. They're useless but usually get in the way of most blasters happily enough.”

“I don’t need an army,” he spat before turning to where Ashildr was comforting Anahson. “Keep her comfortable,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, “I’ll be right back.” He paused with his hand on the door and looked over his shoulder to where Missy stood, an exaggeratedly innocent expression on her face. “Missy, if anything happens to either of them while I’m gone, the rift will be the least of your worries.”

* * *

Clara stepped out of the light and onto the hauntingly familiar street. The TARDIS was stood alone, deserted and locked in the shadows. She couldn’t help but feel relieved even as a thread of worry ate at her. It didn't bode well that the old time machine had been abandoned. She patted the ship’s side affectionately.Something caught her eye on the cobblestones a few feet away and she bent into a crouch to gather up the orange spacesuit strewn damply in a puddle. Judging from the size, it was the Doctor’s. She swallowed thickly. She’d chosen the right door. Raising her head, she looked around her carefully, blinking the fine rain off her eyelashes. Now, where were they all?

As she rose to her feet, she tried to remember the way out of Trap Street and into London proper, steadfastly refusing to look further down the street to where, at some point, at some time, her body would fall and never get up. Picking up speed, she rounded a corner and mentally high-fived herself as she recognised the narrow alley that led towards the city. The road was void of any traffic, any signs of life. Clara felt uneasy but tried to push the sensation to the back of her mind. _Find the others, figure this out_. She repeated the thought like a mantra.

She closed her eyes briefly. If the Valeyard thought that she and the Doctor had some sort of link, she was going to try and test the theory. Of course, she had no idea what she was doing and probably, just probably, being stood in the middle of the road in a London that clearly wasn’t _her_ London might not be the most tactically sound decision. She snapped her eyes open and took in her surroundings again. She’d turned to face East without thinking about it, which seemed as good an idea as any. She gave a shrug, her spacesuit still heavy on her shoulders and began to walk.

It wasn’t long before she stopped.

Someone was emerging from Bethnal Green tube station. A silhouette framed by a flickering streetlamp and the fine rain that hung suspended in the air; a silhouette she was never likely to forget. He was fiddling with his sonic screwdriver, head down and furious, marching at a brisk pace as though the very future of the world depended on it. Knowing him, it probably did. Clara considered playing it cool, waiting for him to notice her and leaning against a lamppost or something invitingly as he approached. _Yeah, I don’t think so_.

“Doctor!” She shouted, as she broke into a run. He couldn’t have been more than five hundred metres away. She grinned the moment he looked up and saw her, shock radiating from his lanky frame.

“Clara!” They couldn’t have been separated for too long really, but she thought something inside her was going to burst. “Clara! Clara!” He ran towards her, all angles and limbs, the light from his sonic screwdriver bobbing all over the place. The distance between them seemed to take longer to narrow than it conceivably should have.  And then he skidded to a stop just paces away from her. She opened her arms and rushed forward for a hug but he held up a finger in warning, halting her movement.

“Ah! No,” he blurted, holding up his sonic vertically between them as it whirred and flashed. Clara frowned. The Doctor was intent on whatever readings the device was giving him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, flapping her arms down to her side. He looked back up at her, eyes wide and eyebrows aloft.

“This is an alternative universe. You might be a Zygon. Or your own evil twin.”

“But I’m not though.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing a Zygon would say.”

“The sonic can’t tell Zygon from Human and you’re an idiot.”

“Missy’s here, camped out underground. Saviour of half of London, it would appear.” He was twinkling at her now, maybe even took a step closer to her although she was enjoying this dance of theirs too much to close the gap. He powered off the sonic and shoved it carelessly in his jacket pocket.

“That’s...disturbing.”

“And the fabric of time is falling apart, like the prophecy said.”

“Yeah, the Valeyard has a moon full of doors to different universes out there,” she flung a thumb over her shoulder indicating what she assumed was the general direction of Eta Rho. She smiled up at him, “I might have stolen the key.” The Doctor finally smiled at her, a proud quirk of his lips. He glanced away from her and upwards, a small frown flickering across his brow as a shadow moved and settled on a nearby building. Looking back towards her, he took another step forwards so their feet were sharing the same paving slab. Reaching out a long finger, he probed the jagged tear in her spacesuit from where the Reaper had almost got her.

“I’m very cross with you,” he said. She tilted her head at him, her neck straining at their height difference. Her smile softened.

“No, you’re not.”

With an outrush of breath, he crushed her to him as her arms wound around his neck and his face buried itself in her shoulder. They clung together for dear life. The Doctor turned his head slightly and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear.

“ _There’s a Raven watching us from across the street._ ”

He soothed his hands down her back as he felt her tense. Briefly, he held her more tightly to him before leaning back to look her in the eye. He cupped his hand to her cheek and she leaned into his touch. Her expression shot him a question: what do we do now?

Both of them jumped as a rumbling sounded from underground, an unexpected noise in the otherwise silent street. They stared at each other as it stopped, only for the air to suddenly be filled with muted cries and screams that could only have one source: the survivors down in the Tube Station. They didn’t move but their gazes locked, a new determination setting in.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Clara asked, although it wasn’t really a question. “The prophecy, the beginning of the end.” Unable to speak, the Doctor just nodded. He grabbed her hand and held it so tightly it hurt. Clara licked her lips, her gaze darting to where she could feel the Raven waiting. She nodded back at him, acknowledging his unspoken signal.

“Okay, then,” she muttered before flashing him a grin that made his stomach flip over, even after all this time. “Let’s see what we’re made of, you and I.”

He flexed his fingers against hers and felt her apply the same pressure back before he moved to stand by her side, facing towards the sounds of fear and panic as they floated up from beneath the ground. He looked down at Clara and gave her a tight smile as all of their muscles twitched in preparation for what was to come.

As they burst forward, hands locked together, one or both of them shouted a single word and it rang out like a battle cry.

“ _Run!”_

 


	11. Looking for Heaven

_‘And I’m ready to suffer and I’m ready to hope,_

_it’s a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat,_

_‘Cause looking for heaven found the devil in me,_

_Looking for heaven found the devil in me.’_

Shake it Out - Florence and the Machine

* * *

They ran down the stairs into Bethnal Green tube station, the Doctor’s longer stride meaning she was a couple of steps behind him as he pulled her along, his hand still gripping tightly onto hers. They could have run in any direction, Clara realised. They could have - and very few people would have blamed them for it - legged it into the night together, away from Ravens and prophecies and rifts in universes, tears in space. They could have turned and fled, tried to make a go of it in his TARDIS, seen how far they could have got. They might have even been able to live with themselves, up to a point. But that wasn’t who they were. There were people screaming under the surface of these unfamiliar streets and they had to put it right.

As ever with the two of them, there was no time to think. No time to make an informed and agreed upon joint decision, no time to compile lists of pros and cons; they just had to act and hope for the best, just as they had with the neural block, with their separation and as they had on an ongoing basis throughout this ever bloody expanding aftermath of their inevitable reunion. Funnily enough, time never did seem to be on their side. As an English teacher and therefore someone who knew a bit about literary conceits, she was starting to think the universe could frankly could do with toning down the irony at this point.

The first thing she noticed once they were underground were the huddled masses of people, out of breath and scared, hurriedly spilling into and overwhelming the entrance foyer. If the Raven was still chasing them, it was going to have to get in line, she thought. One impending catastrophe at a time.

“Doctor?” she asked, having to raise her voice over the din the drawn, pale people were making. He barged through them to the platform and stopped so abruptly Clara ran straight into the back of him. Straining her neck to peer around his tense shoulders, she took in the scene.

Anahson and Ashildr were at the far ends of the platform, frantically pulling people up from the tracks as kaleidoscopic light shimmered and flared from somewhere deep within the tunnel. There was another ominous rumble, mechanical and impossible, a noise that transported Clara back to a time and place that had never felt more distant, even in this achingly familiar setting. It was a sound they shouldn’t be hearing. Not here, not now. A faint breeze picked up and fanned her hair into her face so that she had to raise a hand to sweep it away. Scattered litter and pieces of paper chased each other down the tunnel in the wind’s wake.

“There’s a train coming…” she realised, horrified, as the people who had been camping in the tunnels scrambled over one another in their attempts to get out of the way.

“It’s a’rollin’ ‘round the bend,” the Doctor half sang, his face grim. With a mutual nod, they let each other go and rushed to opposite ends of the platform to help the others bodily pull survivors up and out of the way. Anahson yelled orders to the handful of soldiers who had clambered down onto the tracks to help evacuate.

“You’ve got about forty-five seconds!” she yelled, “Forget the mattresses, the mattresses don’t matter. You!” She shook her head and pointed to a woman who was hovering close to the platform edge, blocking the way for those trying to escape, “please - either get out of the way or help them!” The metal inhibitor embedded in her temple was flashing rapidly with a bright blue light. Anahson was a woman in charge and Clara had to physically shake herself out of proudly watching the Janus in action, focusing instead on the people who still needed to be saved. She reached down to a young woman who was blinking up at her from the floor of the tunnel, the climb to safety too high for her to scale. Clara grabbed the woman’s outstretched hand and pulled as the survivor lurched upwards, bracing her feet on the platform wall. Clara instantly felt the pull on her shoulders as they struggled to support the weight. She heaved backwards with all her might, straining. To her left, Ashildr was helping a woman who was hobbling on a swollen-looking ankle. Across the tracks, the soldiers abandoned the mattress they had been trying to shift and scrambled to push forward a couple of stragglers; a older man with a cane, another bulky fellow who’d been helping them lift people out of the way and was dripping with the exertion.

“We’re out of time!” Anahson’s voice cracked as the rumble of the train echoed louder, the roar obliterating anything else she might have wanted to shout. The Doctor suddenly reappeared at Clara’s side, one arm wrapping around her waist, gripping firmly onto the belt of her spacesuit to hold her in place as he stretched his other arm out to forcibly grab the woman she was struggling with by the coat. Together, they dragged her up onto the platform just in time as a chrome tube train came thundering out of the rift at the end of the tunnel, sparks flying as it hit the deactivated rail and its brakes latched on for all they were worth. Terrifyingly, the carriages buckled and wobbled as they all staggered backwards. The three fragile figures teetered, the train passing within inches of the woman’s sprawling legs as she flung herself into their arms. One carriage concertinaed, twisting upwards as though the unexpected stop had caused the metal to warp with surprise. With a piercing screech and squeal, the hulking metallic mass came to a final, juddering halt.

* * *

The planet was well hidden. Embedded in a far flung corner of a further flung system, it was ringed by an asteroid belt that tested all but the most cocksure pilots. Huge chunks of rock, broken off during ancient cataclysmic collisions, danced in their invisible orbits, providing a natural camouflage and deterrent to any would be explorers. The Gallifreyan Bow Ship dipped gracefully out of the belt and powered smoothly towards the flash of fertile green that revealed itself beyond the twinkling ice crystals suspended on the outskirts of the final ring. Before long, the vessel made its shuddering descent through the planet’s atmosphere and settled, cloaked and on silent running, just to the south of a thick rainforest.

The General and Gastron disembarked, wearing full armour and carrying their weapons close against their bodies. Gastron took up a defensive position a few feet away. Resisting the urge to stretch out her muscles - it had been a long journey filled largely with tense silence - the General scanned the area for Lonkath’s recent heat signature. In the humid environment of the forest, where trees and plants dripped with condensation, it took her a few moments to isolate the path he had taken.

“This way,” she said, trudging over the gnarled roots of the outlying trees, “and establish an encrypted communication channel with Councillor Meryllda, she’ll be wanting to send out reinforcements if we don’t check in soon.” Once they had been able to determine Lonkath’s plan to involve the Quantum Shade in what was, essentially, still Time Lord business, they had found the Councilwoman to be far more sympathetic to their plight. Whilst not fully supportive of the Doctor and his human companion’s insistence on bringing the Valeyard to heel, she had at least concurred that Lonkath’s actions were less likely to yield positive results; whilst the Hybrid was a threat to Gallifrey, the prophecy regarding the Valeyard threatened the entirety of existence itself and that, as the General had pointedly argued, _included_ Gallifrey.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Gastron nodded. From the pack he carried across his shoulder he removed a communicator and held it out in his palm, face up. The General began to lead the way into the rainforest, wiping her brow with one hand as Gastron punched a prearranged code into the communicator and awaited a response from Gallifrey. He kept the pace with his commanding officer, glancing up at the towering branches overhead as they claustrophobically merged above the narrow path they trod, obliterating the thin vestiges of natural light from the cloud shrouded sun.

“...Major Gastron?” Councillor Meryllda’s voice was tinny as it echoed from the device in his hand. With a quick tweak, he adjusted the signal and raised his head to make sure the General had heard. She stopped her brisk march and made her way back towards him, nodding as he held up the communicator and activated the hologrammatic interface. After a nanosecond’s delay, the image of Councillor Meryllda’s concerned face was projected before them. She was resplendent in her full Gallifreyan robes, her stiff, gold collar softened only by the long, grey curls tumbling in front of it.

“Councillor Meryllda,” the General began, only to stop as the Councilwoman held up a well-manicured finger.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

“Planet designation ZX311N, in the Aeschylus System,” the General waited for the inevitable explosion.

“ _Where_?”

“Only a few systems from Gallifrey,” the General reassured her, “and no where in time. I believe Lonkath has come here to meet with Rassilon.”

“You were supposed to converse with the Quantum Shade,” Meryllda shook her head, “not hunt down disgraced Lord Presidents.”

“Rassilon is the one giving the orders here, Councilwoman,” the General leaned in earnestly, “not Lonkath.”

“ _Councillor_ Lonkath,” Meryllda corrected. “He has not been deposed just yet, General.”

“Not yet.”

Gastron shifted uncomfortably and the image of Meryllda waivered momentarily before settling again.

“That is the least of our concerns at present,” Meryllda said, her voice dropping an octave. “And perhaps it is for the best you are close to finding Rassilon. Before too much longer, we may well desire his help.”

“His help?” Gastron couldn’t hold back his incredulity, Rassilon was a madman, he had thought it was common knowledge. Meryllda certainly wasn’t one of their former leader’s acolytes.

“There are six rifts, General,” Meryllda refused to acknowledge Gastron’s outburst. The General went very still and quiet. “Six rifts, connecting dimensions and feeding into each other. I assume you recall the hypothesis? The Matrix is going wild with reports of leaks in time. It is as unstable a situation as there ever has or will ever be, according to the Wraith.”

The General looked to Gastron, her eyes wide. Gastron took a breath as he felt the forest close in on them. A breeze rippled through the branches and rustled their huge, dark green leaves. It sounded as though they were whispering to each other in horrified hushed voices. He wasn’t entirely sure, he realised with a start, that the plant-life on this planet wasn’t sentient.

“There is one commonality however,” Meryllda continued, her eyebrows raised seriously, “between the realities drawn into this blasted affair: each one shares a myth. The same terrible myth, persisting throughout the ages; beyond the fabric of time, traversing the Void.” Something inside the General sank; from high up in her throat it plummeted to her boots. “There is every chance we are on the wrong side of this catastrophe, General,” Meryllda’s frown was deeply troubled. “Find Rassilon. Make him aware and see what he suggests.”

“But Councillor, the prophecy did not -”

“That’s the problem with prophecies,” Meryllda barked, “they never tell you anything useful, do they?” With that, she terminated the channel between them. The General hid her grimace well, grateful that Gastron was focused on quickly putting the communicator away. She clenched her jaw and steadied her weapon.

“Come on, Major,” she said as she glanced down at her scanner and shook it slightly as though that would reverse the effect of their delay on Lonkath’s weak heat residue. She began to march again, double time. Her mind raced through tactics and plots, trying to see a way out of the mess they were in.

“Ma’am,” Gastron said, easily falling into step next to her, “the myth that transcends the realities...It’s the Hybrid, isn’t it?” The General glanced at him, not deviating from her pace.

They continued their march in silence.

* * *

The Doctor muttered something under his breath and brought out his sonic screwdriver to scan the train as he wandered over to the edge of the platform. Clara tugged sharply on his elbow to stop him from going too far beyond the yellow line, not convinced that suddenly appearing trains from alternative dimensions were entirely trustworthy. He scowled fondly to dismiss her concern but did as he was told and kept a safer distance. The sonic’s blue lights flashed inquisitively, its whir lost amidst the cacophony of the train’s engines which, magically, refused to die. It still sounded as though it was making its thundering approach, the winds had not abated.

The stammering and grateful woman they had saved thanked them wordlessly before stumbling away from Clara and the Doctor and over to where her mother and father were sobbing next to a turnstile, arms open to receive her. Ashildr allowed her to pass as she made sure one of the soldiers was setting up a cordon to keep the survivors at bay until they figured out what the hell they were going to do next. She let out a deep breath and surveyed the tunnel. _If it hadn’t been for Anahson..._ Smoothing down her hair, she half-jogged over to where the Doctor and Clara were stood a little distance apart as the Time Lord tinkered with something.

“Hi,” Clara said, struggling to think of anything more original. Ashildr gave her a tight, watery smile as she rushed forward and pulled her friend into a fierce hug.

“Didn’t get erased from time, then?” Ashildr asked, pulling back with a grin that wobbled slightly.

“You’d be the first to know if I did,” Clara scanned the exits of the station where people were starting to scuffle amongst themselves, trying to get a better view of the crumpled train, “what have I missed?”

“Clara!” Anahson’s voice carried from the other end of the platform where she rested her hands on her knees, bent double and exhausted. Clara raised a thumbs up and flashed her a smile. Abruptly, the sound of the train stopped.

“Temporary sound dampener,” the Doctor announced as he wandered back over, quickly lowering the volume of his voice halfway through the sentence once he realised he was too loud, “the sonic resonates at the exact opposite frequency of the train to cancel out the engine noise. Should do the trick for now, I couldn’t hear myself think.” The Doctor trotted a little way along the platform and peered over the barrier that was in place to stop people from venturing into the tunnel, back when health and safety legislation was something this version of London had time to be worried about.

“Doctor,” Clara called to him, pointing at the train, “what are we going to do about _them_?” His eyes widened as he followed her finger to where she indicated, giving away the fact he clearly hadn’t noticed the commuters crammed into the carriages. Some of them were sat, gazing wearily out of the window, others were stood, clinging onto handrails that hung from the ceiling, uncomfortably pressed up against each other. They were all frozen, unmoving. It was like somebody had taken a photograph of a dystopian journey and framed it in the disused station as an art installation.

“Oh,” the Doctor said, as he stared through the nearest window, “that’s not good.” The train itself was beyond the technology Clara remembered from contemporary Earth. If she was pushed, she would have guessed it had broken through the rift from the 22nd Century; close enough to her own time that tube travel was still a necessary part of the daily grind, advanced enough that - well, actually, there didn’t seem to have been that great an improvement in London’s public transport system. Clara couldn’t say she was really surprised.

“Why isn’t the rift closing?” Ashildr asked, leaning out slightly to peer back down the tunnel. Anahson had recovered herself and joined them, clasping her hand onto Clara’s shoulder in greeting. Clara wasn’t about to let that slide and pulled the younger woman in for a quick embrace.

“It won’t close until we send them back,” the Doctor shrugged. “They’re stuck. But, every time something comes through,” he gestured at Clara, “another rift opens. We need to hold off for now until we have a plan or next time it might not be something so easily manageable. The passengers will be fine for the time being; just another boring journey as far as they’re concerned... Is the rift not playing havoc with your abilities, though?” the Doctor frowned at Anahson, his gaze unnervingly flicking up to her inhibitor.

“Well, Missy...” Anahson hesitated, looking at Ashildr for guidance.

“What did she do?” the Doctor asked, with a mounting sense of dread.

“Nothing irreversible, just incredibly clever,” came a singularly unwelcome voice from somewhere behind them. Clara counted to ten in her head and turned around, slowly as she rubbed the raven tattoo on her wrist, an almost calming gesture, before folding her arms across her chest.

“Missy. Still alive, then.”

“Still dead, then?” sniffed the Time Lady as she slowly looked Clara’s spacesuit up and down. “Do try and blend in with the locals, dear. First rule of trans-dimensional travel, that.”

“Congratulations on finally managing to get your hands on a TARDIS and immediately losing it,” Clara shot back.

“What did you do to Anahson?” the Doctor demanded.

“I’m fine,” Anahson said, “I feel a lot better, actually. Headache’s gone.” She looked a lot less certain than she sounded and lifted a hand up to probe the inhibitor with her fingers.

“Like I said, handy to have a rift warning system. I repaired some fried circuits on the inhibitor. Now Two Face here can tell us when and where the rifts are appearing without swooning all over the place…” Missy’s eyes were wide and innocent, a completely obvious facade.

The Doctor, meanwhile, held his hand out to Clara. She pulled her sonic sunglasses from her suit’s trouser pocket and passed them to him, surprised they weren’t smashed to pieces from her acrobatics on the Last Planet. The arms were just slightly askew as the Doctor popped them on and moved slowly around his young companion, scanning her intently as she blanched under his scrutiny.

“Ach, calm yourself,” Missy waved her hand dismissively, “she’ll be fine.”

“Not that I want to agree with anything Missy says,” Ashildr interrupted, “but Anahson is in full working order, the laws of the Universe...not so much. We’ve got bigger problems to address.”

“She’s right,” Clara admitted as the Doctor ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “I was with the Valeyard before I came through to find you. He’s got big plans,” she slipped her fingers into her breast pocket and pulled out the key she had used on Eta Rho to cross beyond the door, “and, unfortunately for him, they seem to be tied to this.”

The Doctor and Missy were stunned into silence as they stared at the sliver of moulded metal resting in the palm of Clara’s hand, etched with Gallifreyan text and looking other-worldly despite its simplicity. Clara watched as the Time Lord and Time Lady exchanged a sharp look. All of a sudden, she remembered how long they had been friends. It was strange, unsettling, to see them in apparent agreement. She turned her attention back to the Doctor, tilting her head to the side as he reached out and touched the key almost fearfully.

“That’s the Key of Rassilon.” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

* * *

A headache lulled him back to groggy consciousness. Overhead, the mottled sky was darkening. As the Valeyard sat upright his vision swirled spectacularly. He rose to his feet and brushed off the worst of the mud from his suit with shaking hands. The myriad of footprints leading to his carefully constructed doors made his blood boil, a vein throbbing violently near his temple. Quickly, he patted down his jacket to make sure the box was still within its lining. It was. The forces contained within would never have allowed the human to touch it, but he was finding he couldn’t take anything for granted when it came to that woman. Clara Oswald. She had got into his head, he could still feel the trace of her and it was making his thoughts hazy. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture more befitting the Doctor he realised, before smoothing his fingers over the ruffled shock of black to impose order.

Steeling his jaw against the overwhelming urge to growl with frustration, he reached into his pocket for the Key and cursed loudly when he realised it had gone. This was a setback, there was no denying it. Hands on hips, he slowed his breathing. He needed to think. He still had the TARDIS. He still had the box and the destructive energy contained within, although he could sense his store was dwindling after his and the Doctor’s altercation on the Last Planet. The fact remained, however: he should not be having to improvise. He had not spent all that time in the Matrix and in the Doctor’s cavernous subconscious, watching and learning, to be scrabbling round in the dirt on this godforsaken rock. He had created the prophecy of the Hybrid to scare the Doctor into obliterating his human companion from his mind, not to encourage the two of them to unite and try to mitigate the damage. Why was the prophecy persisting? It was supposed to have run its course in the Cloisters. The Doctor had conquered Gallifrey, burned a billion hearts and stood in the ruins. It was supposed to have been fulfilled.

Lifting a hand and holding it to the green door, he closed his eyes as he assessed its progress. The energy directed towards it was not yet at critical mass and, without the Key, he wouldn’t be able to access its power fully. There was nothing else for it; he had to get the Key back. Chances were that by now, the Oswald woman had managed to find her pet Time Lord, which meant the Doctor would have been able to decipher his plan, if not necessarily the finer details. With powerful strides, the Valeyard began to march towards where he had parked the Diner TARDIS. It was neither elegant nor efficient, but the ship could be forced to take him to where he needed to be.

There was one major advantage, the Valeyard noted, that he had over the Doctor which could still be utilised: the Valeyard had nothing. He was born to nothing, given nothing, treated like nothing by his own people, his existence denied and suppressed. He had nothing to lose. The Doctor, on the other hand, absolutely did.

* * *

“He did _what_?” The Doctor’s face was close to Clara’s, nostrils flaring as she finished telling them about what she had experienced on Eta Rho after they had all been separated. They were sequestered back in Missy’s office, crowded into the small space for some semblance of privacy. Missy span idly around on an ergonomic leather chair, only half-listening. Ashildr stood on guard by the door, overhearing the faint noise of the survivors arguing with the soldiers beyond the platform; they were getting restless. Anahson sat perched uncomfortably on Missy’s desk, nervously fiddling with a damaged motherboard. In the centre of the room, Clara had been pacing, as much as it was possible, during her story. However, as soon as she had mentioned the Valeyard’s invasion of her mind, the Doctor had stopped her with a firm grip on her wrist. He was furious, almost trembling with rage.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clara told him, meeting his stare, “it was a thing that happened.” She didn’t believe it herself, could still feel the remnants of the Valeyard’s forced link brushing against the edges of her consciousness. She bit her lip to fight against the flood of panic that ran through her at the memory of those fingers pressed painfully against her temple. Worse, she knew the Doctor could see right through her bravado. She shook her head at him minutely as he opened his mouth as though to speak - _not here_. “Thing is,” she continued, stepping away from him slightly and raising her voice to get the attention of the others, “I saw a lot more than he wanted me to when we were linked. But I can’t -” she broke off, frustrated. “It’s like I can feel them there, but I can’t access them, like the images are behind some kind of forcefield.”

“Well of course they are,” Missy scoffed, “you’re human. I’m surprised your brain didn’t dribble out of your delicate little ears the instant he touched you.”

“Clara’s time-looped,” the Doctor unnecessarily reminded her, holding a long finger up in the air, “he will have essentially been sucked into a locked telepathic circuit as soon as he forced the connection. Her thoughts looped in the space between a heartbeat, echoing back at him. That will have set him back considerably.” He smiled thinly at Clara. She had probably taught the Valeyard a thing or two about hubris.

“Can’t you two, y’know,” Anahson gestured between the Doctor and Clara, “link up and find the images in Clara’s subconscious that way?”

The Doctor shook his head as Missy gave a loud snort. “Maybe if he’d paid more attention at the Academy,” she chuckled, “even I’d struggle with time-looped telepathy. The Valeyard is the only Time Lord arrogant enough to think he could pull it off.” She winked at the Doctor theatrically.

“Seven doors,” Ashildr muttered, pushing herself  away from the wall. “What’s the significance of the seven doors?”

“They’re the different universes, right?” Clara asked, “Or the portals to get to them. He was trying to get me to pick one because he didn’t know where you were. They must be the universes the rifts lead to.”

“Six universes,” the Doctor corrected. He looked around for something to demonstrate with. He shooed Anahson from the desk and swept it clear, sending all the alien gadgetry and papers to the floor with a loud crash. He brushed his hands over the wood to clean it off before producing a stumpy piece of chalk from his trouser pocket.

“What have I told you about keeping chalk in your pockets?” Clara asked, her tone wry. He quickly looked up at her, his tongue curling over his top lip in concentration as he drew six evenly spaced circles onto the desk’s surface.

“Sorry, forgot,” he said, eyes twinkling. Missy groaned as Clara gave a little laugh. “Six universes,” he continued, stepping back to admire his handiwork, chewing on his lip. Ashildr and Anahson stepped forward to look at the diagram. “It’s called a Hexadimensional Net. It was a theory Gallifreyan engineers had developed before the Time War but the research was abandoned when things...escalated.” He drew messy lines from each circle, until there was one larger circle connecting them all and six straight lines crossing the central space, connecting the opposing universes. “Six universes, leaking through time and space. Eventually, all that instability will converge at a central point,” he stabbed the chalk in the centre of the mess of lines, “Eta Rho, it would appear. And the Seventh Door.”

“The Seventh Door?” Ashildr asked, sharply. “As in, _The_ Seventh Door?”

“Is that supposed to mean something to the rest of us?” Anahson frowned, looking at the mess of white lines.

“The Seventh Door gives access to the Matrix,” Ashildr supplied. “It’s where corporeal beings can enter it. I thought it was a myth.”

“You know,” Missy piped up, almost conversational, “I had always wondered why it was called that. It didn’t occur to me it was just because there were six other doors. I feel a bit silly now.”

“Elegant in its simplicity, no?” The Doctor grimaced, like he usually did when he found himself agreeing with her. He turned to the others, suddenly feeling the utter calm of someone faced with a threat they had little chance of defeating. “I know exactly what the Valeyard has planned.” With the hand still holding the piece of chalk, he rubbed his face wearily. “He’s going to reboot the Matrix. Every Time Lord who has ever been uploaded. Everything the Time Lords have ever learned. He’s going to rewrite it all in his image and he’s going to burn six universes to do it.”

“He’s going to try,” Clara said firmly, conscious that everyone in the room turned to look at her. She held up the key until it glinted under the office’s flickering fluorescent bulb. “But he’s certainly not going to win.”

* * *

Anahson stared at her reflection in the window of the train, noting how tired she looked. She thought back to when she and the Doctor had arrived on the Shadow Proclamation all that time, all those losses ago. She had seen herself dimly in the windows of the Justice Asteroid, looking out onto the nebula beyond and had thought herself a girl; young, innocent and on the cusp of the greatest adventure of her life. Now? She sighed. The weight of her recent experiences hung heavy on her shoulders. It seemed the more she lost, the more of herself she found. She wasn’t entirely sure she was worth the price. Squinting, she redirected her focus and looked upon the face of the smartly dressed woman who was sat in the seat next to the window, frozen in time on the other side of the glass. Her lips were curved into a smile, her expression hopeful. Where had she been going before she had been so rudely ripped from her own time?

Anahson sensed a silent movement behind her. She span around: Missy. For some reason, her shock disintegrated. Of course. The Time Lady was watching her closely, having crept out of the office where the others were still discussing their plan.

“Didn’t think I’d be able to sneak up on you,” the other woman said, eyes blazing, “what with -”

“That joke’s already been done,” Anahson snapped.

“Now, now,” the Time Lady tutted, tapping a long finger against Anahson’s inhibitor, “that’s no way to speak to the person who fixed your wiring.” Anahson felt a rush of electrical current needle its way across her skull. It tingled, but not painfully. She clenched her teeth.

“What did you do to me?”

“Made you better!” Missy leaned in, wrapping an arm around Anahson’s shoulders and pulling her close. “Although, of course, you may feel the urge to do whatever I telepathically suggest, a pleasant little side effect of the fully activated implant.” A shudder of dread flooded Anahson’s veins as she struggled to get away. Missy cackled and ruffled a hand through Anahson’s hair before pushing her playfully with her hip. “And I suppose you want to be a tattle tale, now. Tell Daddy what I’ve done? Oh, sorry, not _your_ Daddy. I heard you’d basically killed him on Haida…” Anahson lunged forward - ready to raise the alarm or punch Missy in the face, whichever came first - when suddenly, her vision danced in front of her and she found herself crouching down onto one knee in front of the Mistress, head bent in servitude. She panicked, tried to coax her limbs to stand but they didn’t have the will. Instead, she felt her lips pull upwards into a sickening, beatific smile.

“That’s more like it,” Missy said. “The Haidans were so close to controlling the Janus with their inhibitor technology; it only takes a smidge of genius to realise its true potential.” The door to the office banged open and Clara, the Doctor and Ashildr piled out, in heated discussion.

“Clara, there’s no point,” the Doctor was gesturing wildly, “and it’s too dangerous.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she retorted, her patience thinning.

“Oh well, if we’re rolling out clichés: the early bird catches the worm,” the Doctor stopped in front of the cordoned off survivors and waved his arms around his head, giving them a show, “absence makes the heart grow fonder, never run with scissors!”

“You realise you’re making no sense, right?” Clara folded her arms across her chest and looked to Ashildr for support. Anahson felt her legs return to her control and rose unsteadily to her feet in time to see the Viking shake her head and stalk away from the arguing couple, walking towards where she and Missy were stood.

“Are we going?” Anahson managed to ask, forming her words carefully. With a jolt, she realised that she wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it was _her_ asking the question. She wondered if she could find some way to alert Ashildr as to what was happening. Perhaps if she could get some distance between her and Missy…

“Clara wants to see if the TARDIS’ telepathic circuits can recover whatever images she managed to glean from being linked with the Valeyard. She thinks he has bigger plans for the Doctor. The Doctor thinks, and I quote, ‘that is the stupidest idea she has had in all the years he’s known her, including the four and a half billion he spent in the confession dial,’” Ashildr winced, “which went down about as well as you can imagine.”

“I’ll go with her,” Anahson managed to get out before she felt a twinge in her temple. “Actually, forget that,” she heard herself say, “Clara’s dead boring.” She glanced sharply at Missy. Perhaps the lack of subtlety would give her away without Anahson even having to do anything? Missy gave an exaggerated shrug. Unfortunately, Ashildr didn’t seem to notice the slip. The Doctor approached, checking over his shoulder to where Clara was stood, impatient, near the exit.

“We’re going to the TARDIS,” he said, begrudgingly. “We’ll be ten minutes, fifteen at the most.” He held his hand out to Ashildr, who watched with wide eyes as he dropped the Key of Rassilon and his sonic screwdriver into her palm. Any lingering distrust the two had from Ashildr’s actions all those years ago evaporated in that instant. “If we’re any longer, or it looks like we’ve been,” he raised his voice and flung his words over his shoulder for Clara’s benefit, “ _horribly killed_ , or if the universe _disintegrates around our ears_ , you know what to do.”

Ashildr nodded, “Wing it and hope for the best.”

The Doctor gave a curt laugh - their plan was a little more nuanced than that, surely? Perhaps it was better not to dwell. With a final warning look in Missy’s direction, he turned his back and walked to where Clara was waiting. Anahson felt something tight constrict in her throat; words she wanted to say, suppressed.

“We’ll be fine,” she heard herself exclaim, “Missy will protect us.” The Doctor paused and looked round at her, puzzled. Looking down, she saw and felt her hand clench into a jaunty thumbs up. He returned the gesture with a grin and continued on his way.  In her mind, she felt as though she was banging on a thick window, as removed from reality as the commuters on the train. The only difference was she was pounding on the glass with her fists and screaming until her throat was hoarse but they couldn’t hear her, couldn’t see her. Something delicate inside Anahson fractured as the Doctor and Clara disappeared from sight. They hadn’t noticed that anything was wrong.

* * *

The Doctor pushed open the door to the TARDIS and hastily ushered Clara inside. As she entered, he checked the chimney stacks of Trap Street for their feathered friend: there was no sign of it. He had practically dragged them back to the ship, convinced that the Shade was going to descend on them as soon as they emerged into the hesitant dawn which misted across the deserted London streets. Clara had been annoyingly pragmatic, insisting that if it was going to collect her soul, there wasn’t much either of them could do about it. But the moment he dreaded had not come to pass and he cursed himself for the sliver of dangerous hope it gave him. Had the Universe finally given them a lucky break? Had the damn bird decided to leave them in peace? It had been watching them earlier, perhaps it had seen everything it needed to see?

“Let’s make this quick,” he said, busying himself with the console as he coaxed his ship back into life. “Bad things tend to happen when I leave Missy unsupervised for too long.” Clara watched as he worked, feeling the reluctant pulse of the TARDIS as the lights in the roundels lit up, dimmer than usual.

“The TARDIS doesn’t like it here, does she?” She asked, still a little wary to push him after their disagreement.

“We’re in the wrong universe, of course she’s not happy.” He barely looked up as he spoke to her and Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Well, there wasn’t really much point if he wouldn’t see it.

“Are you sure our keys will bring her back to us when we get to Eta Rho?” she asked, biting back a flare of worry for her old home, for the Doctor’s closest compatriot. He didn’t respond, whether due to his darkening mood or simply a result of not knowing the answer, she couldn’t tell. Finally, she gave up waiting for a reply and shrugged out of her spacesuit, kicking off her shoes and tugging the zip open at the same time. At the first rip of velcro, she felt his eyes flick over to her and she hid a smile. _So you’re not in a complete arse, then._ Once the orange material was pooled at her feet, she bent to pick it up and bundled it over the nearest flight seat.

“God, that feels better.” She plucked at her black and white striped top until a rush of cool air hit her skin. She tugged at the waistband of her jeans so they were in a more comfortable position. The tattoo on her wrist itched and she scratched at it, absently.

“Yes, yes,” he said, gesturing her over to where the telepathic circuits glowed, “we’re on a bit of a tight timescale here, you know.”

“When you get in a sulk, you really get in a sulk, don’t you?” She said, raising an eyebrow and walking over to him. With a smirk, she lifted both hands and waggled her fingers at him to show she was ready.

“I’m not in a sulk,” he sulked, “I just -” She stepped between him and the console and his sentence died on his lips. With a focus she internally applauded herself for - her back, as it was, flush against his chest - she reached down and was about to thrust her fingers into the rubbery fronds when the Doctor’s hands closed over her own and she froze. For a second, they were entirely still. The only sounds were the Doctor’s breathing and the muted environmentals of the ship itself.

“Gently,” came his rough brogue, “you don’t want to overwhelm her.”

Clara couldn’t help herself. She turned angled her head towards him and felt the cool air of his breath as it hit her cheek.

“Overwhelm _her_? Do you have any idea what you -”

“Clara...”

“I know, sorry. Stupid human urges.”

He shifted behind her. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s okay, I understand. Six universes are at stake.”

“You made us come here because you were worried about _me_ ,” he pointed out, “we could have been on our way by now.”

She put her hands down and turned to face him, relieved when he didn’t step away. She leaned back against the console and ran a tired hand over her face. “Do we need to have a talk about this? Do you trust my judgement so little you think I’d suggest this if I didn’t think it was important? There’s something in here,” she tapped the side of her head, “something he didn’t want me to see.”

“It’s not your judgement I’m concerned about.” His blue eyes were wide, honest. Clara’s mind briefly reeled at how far they had come together, since the days when they used to lie to each other, both thinking it was for the best. It was just a shame, she thought, that it was her death that had been the main contributing factor behind this admittedly very gradual progress. She relaxed against the console a little, smiled up at him in that sad way she knew he still didn’t fully understand. The moment elongated and stretched, almost as though it was happening within the vortex; as though time didn’t matter, wasn’t crumbling to pieces all around them.

“You won’t make the same mistakes you made on Gallifrey,” she said, eventually, “you won’t go that far again.”

“Won’t I?” He looked lost as he lifted his hand to her cheek and stroked her skin gently with the backs of his fingers, a touch so light she could barely feel it. Despite everything they were afraid of, she leaned into him.

“No, you won’t. You’ll do the right thing. We both will. That’s what we do.” His thumb brushed over her bottom lip and she pressed a featherlight kiss against its pad before he slowly withdrew, nodding a little as though her faith in him was restoring something he thought had been lost, or at least temporarily misplaced. Her gaze fixed on his lips and it would have been so tempting to reach up and taste them again but he was still tense - this was all still too raw, for her as well - and she knew the opportunity had passed.

“Good to know,” he chuffed, clearing his throat as she reluctantly turned away from him and hovered her hands over the telepathic circuits again. This time, she smiled as his hands reached for hers and guided them carefully downwards.

“If anything rude shows up on the screen, it’s not my fault,” she declared, looking up at the time rotor and addressing the TARDIS directly, “I apologise in advance.”

“Do you need me to go and stand at the other side of the room if it’s too difficult for you to school your thoughts?” the Doctor asked directly into her ear, sounding amused as his breath danced in her hair.

“Egomaniac,” she threaded her fingers through his.

When the screen came on, Clara would have blushed if she’d been able. Studiously, she gritted her teeth and ignored the Doctor’s surprised grunt, ( _Pleasantly surprised? Nope, don’t go thinking that, that’s not going to help)_ , trying to focus on what had happened between her and the Valeyard on Eta Rho.

“You’ve got it,” the Doctor said quietly, as the image on the screen shifted to the small, muddy moon and its ominous, anachronistic doors that didn’t belong anywhere. Clara shut her eyes as the screen version of herself was shoved hard into the green door. She felt the Doctor’s arms flex around her at the sight, knew from the slight snarl that escaped his lips exactly the moment he’d seen the Valeyard force his fingers to her temple.

“You’ll like the next bit,” she said, her voice strained, “I’m about to kick his arse.” Long fingers flexed up her wrists, soothing.

“Clara Oswald, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

She found the courage to open her eyes and watched as images flew across the screen, too quick to make out, a multicoloured blur.

“There’s too much,” she said, “we’re never going to -”

“It’s the time-loop,” he confirmed, “but it’s okay, just try to calm down. Clear your mind. How have you been sleeping? Meditation?”

“Sort of. I’m not very good at it.”

“I’ll show you some techniques once this is over…” the Doctor broke off, allowing the sentence to trail into nothing. The fact that there simply wouldn’t be any time for them if they were lucky enough to survive this, quietly announced its presence in the room and took up residence in the corner. They had no future, not if they wanted to fix this mess for good. “Pretend I didn’t say that,” the Doctor muttered as the monitor slowed and paused upon an image of where Clara’s mind had gone: a raven, suspended in time, waiting for her. Him looking on, an empty shell.

“Yeah, okay,” try as she might, she couldn’t move on from the sight. She turned her head, unable to look at it any longer. “This isn’t working.”

“It will,” the Doctor was resolute, “it has to.” His hands left hers and he pulled the monitor round to face him. It juddered violently on its bracket as he stalked away from her around the console,  suddenly all agitated, coiled energy. Clara removed her fingers from the telepathic circuits and watched him.

“Doctor…”

“No, I’ve got it. She’s seen what we need, she’s just being coy about it.” He pounded some buttons on the console. Balling his hand up into a fist, he was striking the hard surface with what she knew was too much force. It had to hurt.

“You said it didn’t matter, I should have listened.”

“It matters to you,” he bit, chewing on his lip as he frowned with concentration. He jabbed at the monitor threateningly, pulled his hand back abruptly when the TARDIS gave him a sharp electric shock. “Ach!” He sucked on his knuckles then hesitantly gestured for her to come over, gaze transfixed on whatever the screen was displaying. “She’s got it,” the Doctor cautiously smoothed his hand over the console and whispered an apology as Clara stepped over to stand next to him, careful. On the monitor, a sequence of a dozen or so images began to play, repeating and picking up speed as they cycled through. The Doctor tweaked a lever to slow them down and they huddled close together in front of the small screen: a crack in a wall with light shining through; his former selves - all of them - at the point of their regeneration; and finally his current self, on his knees in an unfamiliar setting and in agony as tell-tale gold light rippled through his body. Clara watched the Doctor’s reaction, the golden images infusing his features with a soft glow. His frown looked all the more prominent and sad as he stared down at her, resigned.

“Regenerations,” she said, her voice soft as the realisation dawned, “he wants your regenerations.”

* * *

The first shot took them by surprise. The General tasted dirt as she flung herself to the ground. Instinctive, agile. Adrenaline rushed through her and propelled her back to her feet, into cover. Leaning heavily against the tough bark of a wide tree trunk, cocooned by buttress roots, she whipped her head around to find Gastron. He was on the opposite side of the path, behind cover himself. He flinched as a blast hit his tree, sending splinters of wood across his cheek, drawing blood. Eyes wide, he looked to her as she held up four fingers. Four positions, through the trees. They must be close to Rassilon’s compound. She listened to the blaster fire as it tore through the still, damp air. Creatures scattered through the sky whilst others sprinted away under the carpet of bushes. Squawking with fear, they fled. Underneath the noise, something unusual. She gestured to Gastron as he checked his weapon, cocking it, taking off the safety, clearing jungle gunk from the sights that much have clung to him when he fell. She did the same to her own. Gestured again.

_Automatic?_

Gastron nodded, understanding. The weapons fire was too uniform to be manual, covering too perfect a grid. And she was pretty damn sure Rassilon wouldn’t have risked taking a battalion with him when he was exiled. Turrets. They were turrets.

She hated turrets.

Cowardly bloody defenses but incredibly effective. They must have been scanning the path. If only they’d flanked to the sides once the route had become easier to traverse. She should have known. Bringing her breathing under control, she signalled to Gastron again. She was going to crawl to the side. Into the thickest part of the bush, to the right. She held up two fingers this time. The second one on the right. Short bursts. Stay hidden. Stay safe. He nodded at her, even threw her an unprofessional wink that she found vaguely ridiculous given the circumstances. With a swift roll, she flung herself into the mess of plants to her side, holding her breath as orange blasts of light scorched overhead. Some thudded into her tree, others ripped leaves from their stalks and showered them down over her, burning and smouldering like drops of fire rain.

She just had to find the angle.

There was always an angle from which a turret could be approached where its blaster purposefully couldn’t shoot, the smallest of windows in its defense mechanism that would normally obliterate any incoming fire via a protective forcefield. Usually, the gap didn’t matter, it was a necessary weakness to reduce the risk of the heat of the blasters accidentally igniting the turret’s energy source, and rarely did anyone get close enough or have aim enough to hit the sweet spot. The General, however, wasn’t just anyone. She was the leader of the Time Lord War Council, survivor of the Last Great Time War and, at this precise moment in time, she was bloody pissed off.

Nose skirting the thick layer of mulch covering the rainforest floor, she inched forwards. To her left, she heard Gastron’s weapon ring out in short bursts as ordered. The other turrets paused momentarily before a thunderous hail of blasts blanketed the air above their heads. The heat of the lasers was palpable. She hoped the Major’s tree would hold up, she could already smell burning, hear the tell-tale crackle of fire despite the moisture that had oppressed them throughout their journey. She paused, listening. The echoes and the electric charge in the air were putting all of her senses out of whack. There it was. The buzzing whirr of the rotating muzzles, just to the right and maybe twenty feet away. Lifting herself up slightly on her forearms, she scrabbled forwards. She had to keep going. The faster she was moving, the less likely the turret would lock on to her in any fatal way. Gastron had stopped firing, she was suddenly aware; she hoped he was reloading his energy clip.

A voice. A strangled male cry. _Damn it_.

No time to think about it: Gastron could regenerate if he needed to, maybe even channel the regeneration energy in a useful manner as the higher ranks sometimes managed if they were laid out in battle. The General tried to forget her own double digits. _Keep moving_. Suddenly, through a brief gap between the leaves of a spiky, flower-laden plant she saw the turret. About five feet high, its feet were spaced in a tripod with two rotating cylinders atop them. They cycled fluidly, featuring three muzzles apiece - death from any direction. The view wasn’t exactly clear but she could make out the whole body and the General was patient, experienced. She watched. The energy source was embedded inside the turret, its hatch at the underside of the unit as common sense dictated. But there was a fuel line, running up from the bottom and along the edge towards the uppermost cylinder. A back up system to ensure both cylinders could not fail at the same time. She should know, she’d recommended the redundancy herself, lifetimes ago. Old technology at this point, but still more advanced than most civilisations were capable of producing and unflinchingly deadly. Rassilon had clearly had to make do with the antiques, his armoury privileges were revoked during his hasty exit from Gallifrey, but he had chosen well.

The General held her breath, reached out with her mind and felt time slow. The cylinders rotated at half speed before appearing to stop altogether. There it was; a fluctuation like a minute scratch on a pair of glasses. Not visible unless you knew it was there. And now, it was the only thing she could see; carefully resting her rifle in front of her, lining up the sights as comfortably as she could with chaos erupting around her ears. The General waited for the adrenaline burst that accompanied the surety of a kill shot to pass. Such indulgences could tremble your trigger finger, make you hitch your breath. It passed. She squeezed the trigger, gentle, like she was caressing a lover.

The shot hit, and the fuel line exploded, gushing molten orange until the self-extinguisher promptly kicked in and generated an immediate contained vacuum around the turret. The sudden silence that followed made the General panic more than any of the battle noises had. All of the turrets had stopped firing. All of them. _What now?_ She remained motionless.

“You may as well come out, General,” came the sardonic voice, “since I don’t know anybody else who could make that shot with so little in the way of showboating.”

The General swore under her breath. There was no point in staying hidden, as little as she wanted to give him the satisfaction of her capture or whatever unpleasantness was going to come next. Slowly, she stood up. Behind her, she heard a rustling and was pleased - well, that was a relative term considering their victory was so short lived - to see Gastron climbing to his feet also. She turned to face Rassilon, who was waiting beyond the line of the turrets in a clearing bordered on the opposite side by the entrance of a dark cave cut into a cliff overgrown with vines. His cruel metallic gauntlet was on his stretched out hand, pointing in their direction. Next to him, Councillor Lonkath simpered, looking rather pleased with himself. She walked forward as gracefully as she could with plants clinging to her ankles and boots. Gastron did the same and she waited for him to reach her side at the end of the path, just shy of the clearing.

“Thought you’d been shot, Major,” she said, ignoring Rassilon and Lonkath entirely.

“No, Ma’am,” Gastron replied, practically saluting, “that was Maytal. Tried to sneak up on me. He’s not doing too well.”

A stream of electricity suddenly arced from the gauntlet and the General spun around towards Rassilon. She was just in time to witness the energy that danced across Lonkath’s startled face as the rotund Councillor dropped to his knees, mouth open in silent agony. Gastron tensed next to her and she felt her own muscles stand out in her neck, ready to fight. She stared, helpless, as Lonkath slowly folded in on himself, hands gnarled and instantly stiff with rigor. His pallor was instantly grey and his eyes remained open, suspended in an everlasting state of shock. There would be no warm glow of regeneration energy for Lonkath: the Councillor’s time was up.

“So: General. Do I have your attention now?” Rassilon finally asked, raising his chin as he looked down upon them, every inch the Lord President. Deliberately, with a delighted smile twisting his mouth, Rassilon swung the gauntlet back around to face them.

* * *

They stood in a line across the tracks in front of the train, shoulders squared like a small, mismatched platoon ready for battle. Clara and the Doctor had hastily agreed to keep what the telepathic circuits had shown them secret before returning underground only to discover that any questions they expected were delayed by the tense standoff taking place between Missy’s soldiers and the remaining survivors. There was no need for anyone else to know the Valeyard’s second intention, they agreed: if he achieved the first, none of it would matter anyway. One thing was clear, however: they had to get out of there, and quickly, before the situation deteriorated further. Now, the angry Londoners - increasingly suspicious of these outsiders who didn’t seem at all fazed with the disintegration of time and who had cost them their hard won sanctuary - lined the platforms like crowds watching a matinee performance of a West End musical. The show? Sending an impossible train and its oblivious passengers back to where it came from.

The Doctor held his sonic screwdriver aloft, glanced down at Clara in her shades. Missy, Anahson and Ashildr - in a surprisingly cordial entente, Missy must really have had enough of this universe - were ready to push.

He swallowed thickly, racing through a myriad of alternatives and rapidly dismissing them all as he second-guessed his plan. Could they not just hide the Key? No, the Valeyard would be coming for them, probably had a way to track it and was likely already on their trail. Plus, the universes were unravelling anyway. The wheels had been set in motion. They just had to keep moving and get to Eta Rho before it all went to hell. On the other hand, wouldn’t the Valeyard just be waiting for them at Eta Rho? Wouldn’t they just be walking straight into the lion’s den? No and yes, the Doctor reasoned as a muscle twitched under his right eye. The Valeyard wasn’t going to be satisfied waiting for them to appear, wouldn’t risk leaving something as important as the Key of Rassilon to chance. But he would have contingencies, it would be foolish to assume he otherwise. Contingencies. That was one way of putting it, yes.

With a sickening feeling, the Doctor realised that, technically, the only one of their party the Valeyard needed to keep alive to see his plan through was him. His companions, and Missy, were thoroughly expendable.

And then there was the Quantum Shade, wherever it had disappeared to, flapping its dark wings against the edges of his concern. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t believe it was done with them. The constant threat to Clara was fraying every fibre of his being. He wanted her by his side, always, and he knew, he _knew_ how dangerous that feeling was but he couldn’t do the slightest thing to stop himself from feeling it, was even perilously close to embracing it fully. He huffed out a breath from his nostrils, trying to reign in his emotions.

Not for the first time in his long, long life, the Doctor felt the shadow of death looming. It was stalking them all, a veiled horror always following, never tiring. He clamped down on his growing, gnawing rage, on his blossoming, searing guilt and tightened his grip on his sonic screwdriver as the vivid image of an impossibly thick crystalline wall flashed behind his eyes.

The Valeyard had come from him and now the Doctor was going to end him, once and for all.

With a nod, he activated the setting that would briefly, _very briefly_ , reduce the mass of the train enough for them to shift it back through the rift so that the portal would finally close and stop the weakening of the fabric of reality in the tunnel. Timing was going to be everything. It was a messy, cobbled-together plan. But there again, wasn’t it always? What did everyone expect? He was just an idiot with a box, after all... The thought of the TARDIS, dark and silent - soon to be abandoned in this universe with no sure way of being returned to him - spurred him back into action.

“Ready, Clara?” he asked, indicating that they should step back a little to allow for the crumpled coach to fall back down to the track.

“Ready,” she rose her hand to the side of her glasses.

“Anahson, Ashildr, Missy?”

“Ready.”

“Ready.”

“For god’s sake, get on with it will you?”

The whir of the sonic kicked in and his eyes blazed as Clara’s sunglasses joined in, creating a perfect harmony. The train shifted under the change in its weight, slipped along the tracks until it was flat against them once more. A second of quiet reigned...

“Now!”

Ashildr, Anahson and Missy rushed forward, shoulders down and hands braced against the front carriage. They pushed and the train jolted back towards the rift with a jerk, as though they had all expected it to be heavier than it was, despite his assurances it would be no heavier than an Ikea bookcase. The lack of friction meant the carriages rolled freely and, soon enough, they were all in motion, jogging behind and increasing their pace to keep up. The Doctor grabbed Clara’s hand as he heard their sonics give up the ghost and she, in turn, reached out to Ashildr, who latched onto Anahson, who clung to Missy’s coattails, the closest the Time Lady would allow her to get. Sprinting now, they clumsily chased the rapidly disappearing train as the rift kicked in and sucked it back through. If they didn’t go faster, the shimmering vortex would close before they reached it.

“Go, go, go!” He cried, digging deep and surging ahead, pulling the others behind him. The last fraction of the train cleared the rift and vanished, returning to the 22nd Century in what he fervently hoped would be a seamless transition. The rift rippled and dimmed as they drew closer. He quickly looked to Anahson, who was staring at it intensely as she ran, using her abilities to check its stability.

“Yes,” she shouted, stumbling slightly until Ashildr shouldered her upright.

They hit the rift as one, its bright light enveloping them, eating them whole.

The Doctor felt Time dance across his skin.

They skidded to a halt in torrential rain. It fell so forcefully they were all instantly drenched. The muddy track they had emerged on was almost underwater, covered as it was with interjoining puddles that jumped into the air under constant bombardment. Forked lightning ripped through the dark sky, followed almost immediately by a terrible roar of thunder coming from directly overhead. The group dropped their grips on each other as the Doctor, Missy, Ashildr and Anahson panted to regain their breath. Clara looked around, lifting a hand up to her brow to shield her eyes. There was no sign of civilisation, no indication of which planet this was or what universe or time period they were in. Nor, come to think of it, was there any sign of the sizeable tube train they had pushed through the rift in front of them mere seconds before. She walked a couple of steps away from the others, testing the saturated ground with her rapidly dampening feet. Looking over her shoulder, she had to shout to be heard above the torrents.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this doesn’t _look_ like 22nd Century London...”

The group were at a loss for words, their mouths hung collectively open as they took in their surroundings, water streaming down their faces. With a small flourish, Missy produced her umbrella from inside the lining of her coat and put it up over her head with a satisfying metallic _click_.

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Houses as Ruins and Gardens as Weeds

 

_‘Someone somewhere soon will take care of you,_

_I repent, I’m sorry, everything is falling apart._

_Houses as ruins and gardens as weeds,_

_Why do anything when you can forget everything?’_

 

This is Yesterday - Manic Street Preachers

* * *

Councillor Meryllda nervously, yet without outwardly appearing so, rearranged her robes as the Bow Ship settled in the transport bay. She wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, just knew from the General’s garbled message that they were coming in with bodies and to stand down the guards. Despite the very real evidence diplomacy alone had not been sufficient for her soldiers, it was that last part of the communication which troubled her most. It wasn’t like the General to go against protocol. So the guards had most decidedly not been stood down, they were lined up alongside her and ready for anything. The ship’s boosters expelled noisy jets of steam as they vented and the engines powered down. The disembarkation ramp lowered and Meryllda found herself holding her breath in expectation.

It shouldn’t really have come as a surprise when Rassilon marched down the ramp first, full of pomp and grandeur as though he hadn’t been humiliated and exiled from Gallifrey such a short time ago. Meryllda hid her dismay well, bowed her head courteously but without too much deference. She had been opposed to Rassilon towards the end, had worriedly, helplessly watched his decline and seen his obsession take hold. She still couldn’t shake the feeling he was ultimately responsible for everything that was currently befalling them. He had gambled with Gallifrey’s future by striking this deal with the Valeyard, a plot they had eventually pieced together using the hidden files uncovered by the Doctor’s companions. It was a pyrrhic victory: yes, Gallifrey was out of the pocket universe but the cost...Well, they didn’t know the full cost yet. They were hiding at the edge of the universe, close to the end of time, isolated and without allies. Few knew of their return and those who did refused to acknowledge their existence for fear the Time War would erupt again. To top it all off, the Valeyard had apparently been given free reign to launch his own offensive and the fallout was only just making itself known. The Cloister Bells were vibrating with the aftershocks of Rassilon’s shortsightedness, or, perhaps more accurately, his lack of care. As long as his own power had been consolidated, Rassilon had hardly been interested in what came next. The only reason, the _only_ reason, she would tolerate his presence on Gallifrey would be if he was here to try to set things right. If he was not, he would find himself without the luxury of choice.

A tired looking General and Gastron finally emerged, covered in mud and debris. Meryllda belatedly noticed the gauntlet hanging from Rassilon’s hand and pieced together a number of likely scenarios, none of which convinced her of the former Lord President’s good intentions.

“Rassilon,” she held her head up high and looked him in the eye as though they were equals. Despite how it at all ended, she could still afford him her respect, although he was treading a thin line at this point. “General. Major. Welcome back.”

“Meryllda,” Rassilon bowed his head slightly, “I have been informed by the General that you desire my assistance concerning the Doctor?”

Meryllda flicked her gaze quickly over to the General. That hadn’t exactly been her command but she could understand a little misdirection may have been required to get Rassilon to cooperate. The General gave a subtle nod.

“It is with a heavy heart I must inform you,” Rassilon continued, “that High Councillor Lonkath and Major Maytal have succumbed to injuries sustained in a firefight with the General and the Major, here.” He indicated over his shoulder. “If only you had been more open in your attempts to communicate with me, Meryllda, perhaps they would not have had to resort to violence in order to try to protect me.”

“I’m sorry to hear of their loss,” she responded carefully, “the situation is dire and violence is regrettable. We appear to be a planet divided. I fear they will not be the only casualties of this mess.” Now was not a time for blame or for ridiculing blatant lies, Meryllda decided. Now was a time for action. “Former Lord President, there really is no time to waste - a phrase which sadly becomes less figurative and more literal as we delay with formalities. Would you be so good as to accompany me to the Cloisters so you might see for yourself?”

“Lead on,” Rassilon assented. Meryllda bit back a wince at how much it sounded like an order. With a final glance towards the tense General, she gathered her wits about her, suspecting she might need every last one in the coming hours, and proceeded to clear Rassilon a path through the guards.

* * *

Ashildr skidded as they briskly made their way down the steep hill, slipping and sliding in the mud and the rain and the darkness. For what felt like the hundredth time that minute, she wiped her hand across her face as freezing cold water clung to her eyelashes, dripped from her nose, swept under her chin. Her hair was plastered to her scalp, her clothes saturated and heavy.  They were making for a row of trees at the foot of the hill but, as the lightning continued to flash around them, she began to question how sensible that plan was. She briefly fell behind the others as her ankle turned on something hard and unseen in the deep grass. Pain flashed up her leg and, instantly, she felt her Mire chip kick in to heal it. A tight hand curled around her wrist, pulling her along as she waited for the sensation to go back to normal. The Doctor swept in front of her, practically dragging her into the treeline. Up ahead, she saw Clara and the others as they finally came to a halt underneath a small cluster of trees. Older trees towered around them, disappearing upwards into low slung clouds. The sound of the rain mellowed to a dull, white noise and they could finally hear enough to speak at normal volume.

“I’m fine,” Anahson was saying to Clara as Ashildr and the Doctor caught up, “just tired. But I don’t need to rest. We should keep going.”

Ashildr didn’t miss the look that passed between Clara and the Doctor. Had they noticed it too? Something wasn’t quite right with the way Anahson was behaving, hadn’t been since before they left Bethnal Green. Whatever was happening, it was more than just exhaustion. Mentally, Ashildr added the young Janus to the expanding list of concerns she had been keeping ever since Clara had suggested going back to Gallifrey ‘the long way round’. A tipping point was approaching - had, let’s be honest, quite possibly passed - and Ashildr had resolved that this time, _this time_ , she would take action. She just needed to decide what that action was, which was far easier said than done considering that the person she was likely to end up hurting the most was her best friend.

“Are you sure?” Clara was leaning into Anahson, a caring hand on her shoulder.

“We need to keep moving,” Anahson parrotted, sounding tired. “Let’s go.” It was Missy who was first to move, swinging her umbrella above her head like Mary bloody Poppins as she trotted further into the forest.

“Hang on,” the Doctor ordered, his hand outstretched to stop them, “can you sense a rift? Why this direction?”

“Yes,” Anahson replied, with a grin that didn’t quite fit on her face, “there’s something this way, just beyond the forest.” The Doctor’s brow furrowed further as he pulled his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket as though he wanted to scan to double check. He shook it but the device stayed dark and inactive, the energy he and Clara used to shift the tube train had completely drained it. Ashildr shuddered as a draught of cold air hit her skin. No TARDIS, no working sonic… There was little time to think about it as the group began to trudge soggily onwards.

“Clara,” Ashildr pulled her friend to the side, flinching a little at the feel of the damp material now clinging to the human’s skin, “god, you’re cold.”

“Can’t feel it,” Clara shrugged as they picked up the pace again, dropping behind the Doctor and bringing up the rear. “Remember that time on Illyria?” Ashildr chuckled. They had accidentally landed their TARDIS in a crevasse on the ice planet’s main glacier and their plans for sight-seeing on hover-skis had to be put on hold until they managed to maneuver the diner out, in what Clara had eventually termed ‘a three-thousand point turn’. Once they’d managed to rescue the time machine, they had sat on the glacier and laughed their heads off for a good fifteen minutes, Clara in shorts and a t-shirt, Ashildr bundled in as many layers as the TARDIS had been able to generate. Next to her, Clara unexpectedly stopped and looked over her shoulder, checking the treeline all around them. Her eyes darted across the branches and her mirth evaporated.

“Are you okay?” Ashildr asked, scanning the trees herself. Nothing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Clara said, dismissively. Ashildr didn’t miss her friend’s gaze searching out the Doctor who had turned around to check on their progress. He pursed his lips at Clara, half forming a question and she shook her head minutely at him. Ashildr blinked.

“That wasn’t nothing,” she frowned, “Clara, what’s going on?”

“It doesn’t matter -”

“Don’t give me -”

“Ashildr, please. Just trust me. If it becomes an issue, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Ashildr felt her frustration rising. She got the distinct impression that the Doctor and Clara were withholding information from the rest of them. They never had revealed what the TARDIS had shown them of the Valeyard’s plan from within Clara’s mind, had just insisted it wasn’t anything they didn’t already know. Ashildr found herself genuinely questioning whether that was the whole truth and the thought of these two people in particular having a separate - possibly private - agenda, given everything Ashildr had been told of the Hybrid, made her uneasy to say the least. “You two seem closer, if that’s even possible. Should I be more worried than I already am?”

“It’s under control,” Clara was defensive, “we’ve said we’re going to put this right and we will. We know how this story ends Ashildr, you don’t have to keep reminding us.”

Apparently the conversation was over. Ashildr bit back her instinctive response and put her head down. She focused on walking in a straight line as she once again had to swipe a hand over her face to expel the excess rain. The sooner they found the next rift and made it to Eta Rho, she resolved, the better. Between Missy’s uncharacteristic cooperation, Anahson’s suddenly apathetic attitude and the Doctor and Clara’s unspoken communication, she could feel the fragile ties between the group fraying at the edges. The hovering, constant threat they were all facing was in danger of pushing them to breaking point and Ashildr wasn’t entirely confident they would be in any position to fight the Valeyard once they finally found him, or, as was far more likely - she shook large droplets loose from her hair with a frustrated sigh - once the Valeyard found them.

* * *

The pyramid rose, as unexpectedly as a pyramid could, out of the clearing ahead of them, the forest encroaching on all sides. It towered above them, dwarfing even the tallest old growth trees. Any misconceptions Clara had that they were on Earth, or at least some other universe’s variation of it, vanished. This thing put Chichen Itza to shame and The Great Pyramid at Giza, with its Pizza Hut nose to nose with the Sphinx - an addition which most certainly had not been there when she and the Doctor had briefly looked in on its construction and accidentally sparked a small uprising amongst the team working on the left nostril - looked tiny in comparison. Huge slabs of rock piled precisely on top of each other formed steep steps up each side and, from the flattened top, so high above them it was amongst the clouds, a light shone.

Clearly, somebody was home.  

The rain had lessened to a damp, persistent drizzle as the afternoon sun struggled to make its dim influence known in the smallest shifting of the grey surrounding them. Missy lowered her umbrella as the bedraggled group gazed up in wonder.

“So,” Clara said, trying to put on a jovial tone, “what’s the betting the rift isn’t going to open up at the bottom of this thing?” The closer they drew, the easier it was to make out intricate carvings etched into the stone. Pictographs and hieroglyphics covered every available surface and, as they stepped into its shadow, the Doctor ran his hand over them. They weren’t ancient, still had crisp edges not yet sanded down by the wind, rain and time. Something about this whole setup didn’t ring right to him. The pyramid seemed to be a mishmash of cultures, of races, completely out of time and in the wrong place… Missy tapped her umbrella sharply against the nearest set of hieroglyphs.

“Well, this is more like it,” she crowed, “I was starting to think he had forgotten all about us.” She raised an eyebrow in response to the Doctor’s frown, “You didn’t think he was just going to let you waltz over to Eta Rho without a fight, did you?”

“The Valeyard?” Clara walked over to where they stood and peered at the slab Missy indicated.

“Pop quiz,” the Mistress declared, gesturing grandly at the patterns in the stone, “who can read what it says?”

Despite themselves, Ashildr and Anahson also gathered around. Anahson leaned in and squinted at the squiggles and runic lines. It wasn’t a language she recognised and she wasn’t even sure which direction she should be reading in.

“I can’t,” she said, looking up at the others.

“‘The prodigal son is lost forever,” Ashildr began, reading across as the symbols translated into English before her eyes.

“‘The time of darkness approaches,” continued Clara, as the inevitability sank in.

“When all that was will never be,” the Doctor added almost absently as he made his way to the one opening at the base of the pyramid, a small door that led into a downward slope and rapidly descended into darkness.

“‘And blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah-blah,” finished Missy, “well, that isn’t word for word but you get the gist.” She stared up at the expansive walls of the structure, its first step much taller than the Time Lady herself. “Say, Doctor, do you think he’s compensating for something?”

“How come everyone can read it but I can’t?” Anahson asked.

“We shared a consciousness, not physical form, Missy,” the Doctor snapped. Missy raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Good news for you there, dear, if you haven’t already made the Hybrid with two backs,” the Time Lady elbowed an annoyed Clara in the ribs. “Or bad, I suppose. Regeneration is a lottery…”

“You really can’t read it, Anahson?” Clara asked, looking to change the subject, “I thought the TARDIS translates everything?”

The Doctor huffed out a breath and scratched under his chin. “But mine is in another dimension now, more or less shut down. Her influence can’t reach you here. So there’s only one explanation…”

“Anahson’s the only one who hasn’t been in _our_ TARDIS,” Ashildr realised, “our TARDIS is here?”

“Who’s TARDIS, Viking?” Missy interrupted.

“Which means the Valeyard is too, as if the pyramid wasn’t enough of a clue,” Clara muttered, ignoring the Time Lady again. “What’s he playing at?”

“He wants his key back,” the Doctor looked back to the doorway, placing a palm against its stone frame to see if he could sense any forcefield built into it. Nothing. “Doesn’t want us to get to Eta Rho with it first, which means that’s absolutely what we need to do.”

“So what’s next?” Anahson asked, peering around the Doctor’s shoulder, “because the rift is in there...” the young woman looked up to where the top of the pyramid shimmered like a desert road in a heat wave, her abilities sensing the warping of time the perimeter of the rift produced.

“If he somehow built this place,” Ashildr said, looking around at the group, “you can be sure it’s rigged against us.”

“Oh, definitely,” Clara agreed, “but we don’t have much choice, do we?”

“Do we ever?” the Doctor looked down at her and she found she had to glance away, remembering their moment in the TARDIS earlier. _Remind me again why I didn’t kiss him when I had the chance?_

“Two Face should lead the way,” Missy announced, “use that future sight of hers to tell us if there’s anything unexpected around the corner,” at the Doctor’s raised eyebrow she cackled appreciatively. “You may occasionally foil my plots, darling, but it is usually by mistake. I can strategise better than a five star Sontaran general.”

The Doctor tilted his head in faintly amused agreement as Anahson pushed her way to the doorway and peered in. She took in the slope, the blackness inside and squared her shoulders.

“Okay,” she said, squinting into the dark, “let’s go. No point hanging around here talking about it until the universe disintegrates around us.” She stepped over the threshold and began to walk slowly down and into the pyramid itself. With a skip, Missy followed, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’ve not been in a pyramid for ages, this will be fun!”

“I doubt ‘fun’ is what the Valeyard has in mind,” Clara said as she got in line behind the Doctor and entered the narrow passageway after him. Ashildr followed on behind. The Doctor had to hunch over as the path sloped rapidly downwards, the walls closing in on them as a cool, musty smell of damp rose up from the pyramid’s depths. Clara trailed her fingers gently along the walls as they descended, found that even she had to bend by the time they got further in. The Doctor was practically crouched double. The darkness encroached all around them as the angle of the slope became so extreme that she could no longer make out the light from the entrance. The only way she had to tell which direction was which was the shuffling of the Doctor’s footsteps in front of her and the quiet breathing of Ashildr behind.

“Maybe the Valeyard is making us do this,” she muttered to the vague shadow she could just about make out, “because when he rewrites the Matrix he’s going to reinvent himself as a chiropractor.” The Doctor’s laugh echoed off the walls and Clara grinned. She could almost hear Ashildr rolling her eyes behind her, her friend had never really understood the need for inappropriate humour in life or death situations.

“Ooh, yes,” said the Doctor, enthusiastically joining in the game she’d started, “or maybe -”

“There’s a light up ahead,” came Anahson’s voice, “to the right.” The path they were on widened slightly and, sure enough, a faint green light shimmered a few feet away. The ceiling gradually rose above them and they could finally stand up straight. Anahson turned to the right and disappeared. Clara watched as Missy and the Doctor followed.

“It’s an antechamber of some kind,” she heard the Doctor call out as she drew closer to the light. “Whatever we do, let’s make sure we all stick together...”

Clara was just about to pass out of the tunnel when there was a sudden flash and a thick stone wall materialised two inches away from the end of her nose. She braced her hands against crumbling bricks as Ashildr ran into the back of her.

“What the hell?” Ashildr moved to her side and the two friends stared at each other, eyes wide and unseeing in the suffocating dark. Clara pressed her palm firmly against the wall, trying a futile push as though it would move the obstacle from their path.

“Doctor?” she called, pounding her fist more frantically, “Doctor? Can you hear me?” With mounting frustration, she flattened her palm against the stone again, reaching out with her mind as though she might be able to feel him through the brick.

“Doctor!” In her imagination, she saw him doing the same thing from the other side and let out a sigh. Whatever the Valeyard had planned for them, this was clearly the beginning and their group was already on the back foot before they had even taken more than a few steps. This wasn't good and it didn’t take a tactical genius to see where this was heading: divide and conquer. Clara swore under her breath as Ashildr tapped her furtively on the shoulder.

“Clara, look,” her companion whispered, pulling her around to face the opposite direction. Clara turned and looked behind them where, on the opposing wall, there was a new opening with a shaft of green light shining through.

“That wasn’t there two seconds ago, right?” she asked Ashildr.

“Definitely not.”

With a last, lingering glance at the wall separating them from the others, Clara licked her lips and allowed her hand to slowly fall away from the brick. They would find each other again, she vowed, the universe never let them be parted for long. And, until she found a way back to him, she also wasn’t about to let the universe forget that she was a badass time traveller frozen at the point of her death, accompanied by an immortal Viking who had survived billions of years of the worst the cosmos had to throw at her. Together, they had brokered the peace deal on Aechon, they had taken down the Spice Cartel and foiled the assassination of the Princess Regent on Noveria: surely they could handle anything this pyramid threw at them.

“Right then,” she said, as she and Ashildr moved to stand side by side, “I suppose we’re going this way.”

* * *

The Doctor pressed his hand desperately against the wall, trying not to panic. The memory of Rose’s pained expression the second she disappeared from his sight crossed his mind and he cursed internally, his fingers scrabbling against the stone until it dug into his flesh.

“Clara? Clara!”

“You brought this on yourself: ‘we’ve absolutely got to stick together’,” Missy mocked, thickening her accent to match his. She was gloating, obviously not aware of how much danger she was in if she carried on. The Doctor’s jaw clenched painfully. “Talk about jinxing yourself,” she circled around to the other side of him, relishing the moment. “You’re pathetic! It’s got to be two feet thick, she’s not going to feel you pining through the bricks.”

Letting out a slow, deliberate breath in order to calm down, the Doctor briefly rested his forehead against the cool stone as the image of Clara, hand pressed against the other side of the wall in a position mirroring his own, flickered across his mind’s eye. As well as he could with his admittedly poor telepathy, he sent her a promise that they would find each other again, one way or another.

He pushed away from the wall and span around, eyes blazing. Frown firmly in place, he carefully assessed the room they found themselves in. Although the Doctor knew they had headed sharply downwards as soon as they had entered the pyramid, he suspected there was some Time Lord technology at work within it. The cavernous chamber was definitely bigger on the inside than the outer dimensions should allow. It stretched out before them, suspiciously empty and vast. As he looked up, he saw the green light that filled the room was coming from glowing torches periodically positioned along the walls. Made of the same stone as the outside of the pyramid, the walls rocketed upwards away from them, staircases, doors and balconies interrupting their uniform brickwork. He felt like he was in an Escher painting, as though the usual laws of physics no longer applied. Beside him, he could almost feel Anahson concentrating and he looked down at his young companion.

“How are you doing?” he asked in a low voice. “Think you can help to guide us through this place?” She nodded bravely and looked away, but not before he noticed a flash of desperation behind her brown eyes. Tentatively, he placed a hand on her shoulder and stooped so he could mutter in her ear while Missy was a safe distance away. “I know,” he said, hoping she understood without him having to elaborate, “you won’t suffer this for much longer, I promise.”

There was a quick blue flash of light that rippled across the inhibitor on her temple as Missy drew closer. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed it. His worst fears were confirmed. He looked over to where the Time Lady stood, her hands on her hips, waiting impatiently. He wasn’t sure what she was doing, or what her endgame was, but he resolved that he would find a way to safely get Anahson back to normal before his old friend had the opportunity to cause any lasting damage, physical or psychological. _Somehow_. In the meantime, he felt a familiar flare of guilt as he privately admitted that, whatever Missy had done, Anahson’s powers were enhanced and were probably, make that undoubtedly, their greatest chance of finding their way to the Valeyard. He hated himself for it, couldn’t help but wonder whether, if it wasn’t so useful a development, he would have found a way to free the young Janus already.

Now, however, he could tell from Anahson’s expression that she was reaching out across the vast atrium, trying to see their future mapped out before them, as well as she could with two Time Lords muddying the picture.

“Anything?” he asked.

Anahson froze.

“We’re going to want to run across,” she said, raising a finger on a shaking arm and pointing to the opposite side of the room and a staircase winding up to the next level as she grew rapidly alarmed, “and we’re gonna want to run...now!”

As if prompted by her words, the ground beneath their feet began to shake and buckle. Dust filtered down from somewhere high above their heads and the Doctor grabbed onto Anahson’s sleeve as he lurched into an unsteady sprint. They ran, Missy’s heels echoing sharply around the chamber as her arms pistoned by her sides. They were at full pelt, off-kilter, knees trembling as the Doctor flung a desperate glance behind him. The ground was falling away, huge slabs of stone falling into a pitch black abyss where they had just been stood. His eyes widened and he pushed forward faster as the gaping precipice gained on them. With a powerful surge, he launched Anahson up and onto the staircase as soon as they reached it, flung them heavily up the first few steps as Missy deftly leaped three stairs in one bound. He felt Anahson cling to his jacket pocket as he roughly pulled her to her feet and pushed her ahead of him, scrabbling up the stairs as they crumbled beneath his feet. Just as he thought the game was up, that they were all done for, the shaking stopped.

All was abruptly quiet as he finally relinquished his hold on Anahson and, raising unsteadily to his feet, brushed down the velvet of his dust covered jacket. Anahson clung onto the wall next to him, out of breath and terrified as he reached down a gentle hand to help her up. He glanced up at Missy, a few steps above them as she ran her fingers through strands of hair which had come loose from her normally impervious bun. The Time Lady was incandescent with rage.

“I was ambivalent about which side to be on,” she informed him as she noticed his attention, “yours, his, universes disintegrating, universes staying in one piece. Was probably going to give him a helping hand if you’d dithered for much longer, if I’m honest,” she tossed her hair to the side and huffed out a breath, “but now I want to bring that idiot to heel. No one makes the Mistress run, no one.”

“Glad to hear you’ve seen sense,” the Doctor bit, not believing she was genuine for a second. He pushed past her as he trotted up the stairs and spared a quick glance down into the bottomless void which had opened up where the floor had been. He could still, however, make out the wall where Clara and Ashildr had last been seen and fervently hoped they were safe. Forcing himself to put everything out of his mind apart from the task at hand, he examined the landing they had reached.

A large, wooden door stood invitingly a few paces along, bathed in the jade green light of a nearby torch. Tentatively, he reached out and removed the torch from its bracket in the wall. Clearly, the Valeyard wanted them to get a move on and, although he was loathe to admit it, the Doctor was curious to see what was in store for them next. The further they ventured, the closer they would be to the rift and, whether the Valeyard was pulling their strings and in complete control didn't matter; the Doctor wasn’t about to let him win without a fight. He motioned for Missy and Anahson to stand either side of the door and, slowly and deliberately, placed his other hand on the golden handle, the light of the torch casting his face into ghastly relief. With a quick flick of his wrist, the Doctor turned the knob, pushed and stepped back as the door noisily creaked open.

* * *

Ashildr felt light-headed and stopped for a brief rest, crouched down for a second on one of the steep stairs they had been climbing for what felt like an age. Looking behind her, she felt dizzy all over again as she saw how high up they were. The chamber they originally found themselves in, small, circular and unspectacular, was no longer visible below them. The narrow staircase curved perilously round and upwards with seemingly no end in sight. A little shower of dust and stones drew her attention as she heard Clara backtrack above her. Sure enough, her friend’s concerned face appeared several steps ahead, peering down inquisitively.

“I don’t think it’s much further,” Clara said, completely unaffected by their exertions, “I saw a door a few levels up a while back. We can’t be too far from it now.”

“How long have we been climbing?” Ashildr huffed, fanning her face to try to dispel the heat she was generating.

“Not sure,” Clara admitted, carefully extending her leg and feeling her way back down the flight of stairs that separated them, “but the pyramid can’t be this tall.”

“You think the Valeyard’s borrowed from the TARDIS rule book?”

“Certain of it,” Clara sat down on the step above Ashildr, who groaned gratefully and slumped down in a heap, making sure to lean towards the sturdy wall and not the great big drop on the other side that didn’t really bear thinking about. She doubted even her chip would be able to repair the damage if she fell that far.

“Do you get the impression we’re being kept out of the way?” Ashildr asked, drawing a pattern in the top layer of chalky dust that lined her resting place, “I keep thinking we’re going to emerge back in that original chamber and have to start all over again.”

Clara shook her head. “No, I think that’s too much to maintain, even for the Valeyard.” She slid down and settled in next to her friend. “This is his plan B, right? Even a Time Lord would struggle to make something that mad at short notice. Besides, there’s a door up there and it's not like we've already passed any…” Clara scratched absently at the Raven tattoo on her wrist, the movement catching Ashildr’s attention. The immortal paused, thinking back to their disagreement out in the forest. Clara had been acting as though they were being followed since they had arrived on this godforsaken planet. Suddenly, she knew why.

“Earlier,” she said slowly, “when we were in the forest. You heard something, didn’t you? Or saw something?”

“We should get going,” Clara placed her hands on her knees as though preparing to stand. Ashildr stilled her with a hand on her elbow.

“Clara, please…” She looked her friend straight in the eye. It was time to stop all this lying. “What was it? If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”

Clara sighed and uncomfortably shrugged. “It was the Raven. In London. It was watching me and the Doctor, had been waiting for us, we think. I thought I felt something following us here too but there was no sign of it,” she looked carefully at Ashildr as though she was expecting a response.

The silence lingered.

“Why don’t you seem surprised?” She noticed Ashildr hesitate and sat bolt upright. “Ashildr? Why are you not surprised that the Raven - the thing which, by the way, _killed me_ \- is following us?”

“Well, it makes sense doesn’t it?” Ashildr asked, not able to meet Clara’s gaze, “I mean it’s a Quantum Shade, it transcends time so it would know -” she trailed off, suddenly finding herself unable to keep up the pretense any longer, “It came to me,” she admitted, her voice so quiet that she saw a bewildered Clara had to lean in to hear more closely.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It came to me. The Shade. After the Spice Cartel.”

“Tell me you’re not serious. Tell me, Ashildr, that you haven’t known about the Shade this whole time and hidden it from me,” she put her hand on Ashildr’s shoulder and shook it, her anger bubbling over as her eyes blazed. “How is it tracking me, then?” she demanded, “How does it know where to find me when my countdown is stuck on zero?” Then, gradually, Ashildr saw a light of understanding flicker across her friend’s face as she glanced down at the tattoo emblazoned across her wrist, black and stark against the pulseless white of her skin. “You showed me where the tattoo parlour was,” she said, slowly, “you said they used a special ink which wouldn’t be affected by my time loop.”

“Clara, I -”

“I can’t hear this, not now, not while everything is falling apart. This is -” Clara’s voice rose and she stood up abruptly as though she could no longer stand be sat so close to her. Ashildr scrabbled to her feet too but Clara held out a hand and climbed a couple of steps away. She needed distance. Ashildr recoiled, hurt.

“Look, if you’ll just let me explain…” Clara stopped but didn’t turn around. Ashildr took a deep breath, simultaneously horrified and relieved to get her secret off her chest. “The Shade visited me, just after we’d disbanded the Cartel. It said there was a prophecy, that the Universe was at risk. Said it was linked to you somehow and that the Time Lords had told them you’d found a loophole in the contract; that you were alive and dead at the same time.” Ashildr scratched the back of her head, unsure how to continue. “It said it had travelled through time to find a suitable moment it could transport you back to Gallifrey or, there was a second option…”

“Brand me like cattle again? Not trust that I’d go back under my own free will?”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Ashildr blurted, “it would have taken you there and then if I hadn’t negotiated terms.” Distantly, they could hear thunder booming outside of the pyramid. It sounded as though the storm had started up again outside, only louder and closer than before. There was something strangely uniform about the noise. Clara glanced upwards towards the sound before she finally turned back to face Ashildr, frowning. Ashildr continued, “I thought this was a compromise. Let the Shade keep an eye on you, satisfy it you would eventually return to Trap Street and stop time from fracturing, but still have our wiggle room, still have adventures.”

“But you didn’t think to ask me, to let me decide for myself. God, Ashildr…”

“I was going to, after Aechon. But then we ran into the Doctor and suddenly,” the Viking broke off as a loud crash of thunder interrupted her. How was it penetrating the walls of the pyramid?

“Suddenly…” Clara prompted.

“...The threat of the Hybrid was back, everything the Shade had warned me about.”

“I would have gone back, Ashildr. I was always going to go back,” Clara shook her head in disbelief. “To you I’m some toddler who can’t see the bigger picture, who doesn’t understand what’s at stake,” she furiously wiped away the ridiculous tears threatening to spill from her eyes, they wouldn't exactly help her to make her point.

“When were you going to go back, Clara? It was going to be after the Shadow Proclamation. Then it was ‘oh, we’ve just got to rescue Anahson’ on Haida. Then, ‘the Doctor needs me to help recover his memories’; then, ‘I have to help him stop the Valeyard’, never mind the fact we ran away from Gallifrey again.” Ashildr threw her hands up in exasperation. “So yes, I kept it secret. I didn’t know what to do for the best. And you can’t tell me that you did either, I know you’re as scared as I am about what the Hybrid might mean. You and the Doctor didn’t tell me you seen the Shade either.” Ashildr was pleading now, trying to make her friend see her good intentions. “‘The Hybrid is coming’. It was written on the walls of an alternative universe, Clara. It is permeating the very fabric of reality. How? How can the Hybrid exist in a reality where you and the Doctor don’t? An insurance policy didn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

“Insurance policy. Negotiations. Contracts,” Clara began to ascend the stairs again with purposeful strides, “I wonder sometimes if you have completely forgotten what it means to be human, Ashildr.”

“You were helping me remember,” Ashildr said, softly.

Clara paused, thoughtful. Ashildr watched as she deliberated.

“Are you coming, then?” the former school teacher momentarily sounded as though she was trying to rush a tardy student through the gates before registration. Uncertainly, Ashildr did as she was told and began to follow.

“But I thought -”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m furious with you,” Clara said, almost conversationally before relenting a fraction, “and with myself... for daring to hope there’d be a way around it. That maybe the Doctor and I could somehow earn a future together by fixing this sorry mess.” She rounded the next section and saw the door only a couple of levels ahead. “But, right now, we can’t be this distracted, it’ll play right into the Valeyard’s hands. Not to mention,” she paused and pointed a finger up to the sky and, as if on cue, a rumble of thunder ricocheted through the air and off the musty stonework surrounding them, “the fact that _that_ is not thunder.”

“What do you mean, not thunder?”

“Listen.”

Ashildr listened carefully and could not stop the chill that worked its way down her spine as it dawned on her why the sound was so stomach-churningly familiar. It certainly wasn’t thunder; it was the sound generated by the weapons forges of a species she had purposefully, throughout her entire long and sorry life, avoided thanks to the lingering and innate primal fear of a young, naive Viking girl. Even when she had struggled to remember exactly why she was afraid of them, the fear had persisted throughout the millennia and now, it would appear, she was about to face the source once more.

 _It was the Mire_.

* * *

Anahson gritted her teeth as she felt herself pass the Key of Rassilon to Missy, unseen behind the Doctor’s back. Seemingly oblivious, he pushed through the door ahead of them, torch aloft. An unwilling pickpocket, Anahson had felt the now familiar flare of energy radiate across her temple as she and the Doctor had tumbled onto the staircase together and now, well, now the Mistress had in her possession the very thing they were wanting to keep out of the wrong hands. She pushed her way through behind her Time Lord friend, hoping beyond hope that he had noticed her sleight of hand and was in the middle of devising a plan to save them all. As they stepped beyond the threshold of the thick, wooden door and into the dark room beyond, however, he remained silent and the bubble of hope which had risen in her when he’d managed to let her know that he was aware of her dilemma, sank and burst on something bitter and sharp that was beginning to take root in the pit of her stomach.

The Doctor gave a sharp intake of breath in front of her and she redirected her attention to the room they found themselves in. “Anahson, get behind me,” he ordered, his tone not allowing for any questions. He held the torch ahead of him as though it was a weapon, its green light momentarily flaring and preventing her from seeing clearly what was ahead of them. Gradually, her vision grew accustomed to the poor light and she couldn’t help, nor did Missy prevent, her own gasp of surprise.

Ahead of them, the walls which had been the sandy brick of the pyramid had transformed into black, crystalline rock that jutted out unevenly from the sides and from the suddenly low, oppressive ceiling. From within their midst, there was a faint, blue glow. Embedded minerals underneath the surface twinkled invitingly, here and there peeking out from amongst the darkness. There was a flash of light behind them and they whipped their heads just in time to watch as the door disappeared, impossibly replaced with a long tunnel, the mirror image of the one which now stretched ahead of them.

“He’s leaking it through the rift, he’s got to be,” the Doctor said urgently to Missy, who Anahson noticed with a jolt also looked unusually worried. Swiftly, he tossed the torch to the Time Lady, who caught it without flinching as the Doctor grasped Anahson firmly by both shoulders and forced her to look at him. His eyes were manic, flashing blue green in the torchlight as Anahson struggled to understand what he was saying. She glanced quickly around them: there were metal rails on the dirt floor, leading off and away from them, round to the right. As she stood there, she could hear a rhythmic, metallic banging from somewhere in the distance as it rippled along the walls. Finally, she turned her gaze to a small cluster of blue crystals just over the Doctor’s shoulder. The realisation hit her and a cold dread flooded her entire system.

“How?” her voice was barely a whisper, “how can we be here?”

“It’s not real,” the Doctor told her, firmly, “we’re still in the pyramid, I promise you.”

“That’s Gremshall,” she pointed at the blue crystals, her panic rising, “we’re in a mine. This is a Gremshall Mine.”

The Doctor gripped her shoulders more tightly, “It’s the Valeyard,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, “he’s using the Matrix against you, feeding on your greatest fear. But it’s not real, you have to know that. It’s just a bit of Haida’s past leaking through the rift. I should have known he would try this…”

“Yes, you should have,” came Missy’s voice, as stern as Anahson had ever heard it, “but bleeding heart apologies aren’t going to do us any good now. We need to get out of here. He doesn’t have the Key, this must only be a data slice, not the Matrix proper,” she licked on her finger and held it up in the air, “and a small one at that. A data sliver. No where near as difficult to maintain as the Nethersphere, by the way,” she raised her voice as though addressing an unseen observer, “if you're trying to impress me, try harder!”

“It feels real,” Anahson stuttered, trying to pull away from the Doctor a little. “What’s that noise?” At the end of the tunnel, she could hear marching. Hollow boots, moving in their direction.

“It’s feeding on your fear, Anahson, try to stay calm,” the Doctor pleaded, “He’s set it up and now he’s looping you in as a power source. It’s okay, you’re strong. You’re stronger than you know. You can overpower it. All you need to do is reject this reality, replace it with the pyramid again.”

“How?” An edge of desperation crept into Anahson’s voice now. She saw elongated shadows creeping along the walls towards them, a haze of blue light drawing ever closer. She instinctively knew what was around the corner, was so tempted to run in the opposite direction but found her feet unable to move. She glanced panickedly at Missy next to her, the Time Lady’s face serious for once, not mocking. The Doctor growled in frustration and whirled around to his old foe, full of fury and bile.

“Release her, Missy,” he roared, “undo whatever you’ve done and do it now, do it right now!”

“Ask nicely,” she demurred.

“Just once, for once in your life don’t make this about us. How is she supposed to fight it when you’re inhibiting her?”

“Took you long enough to realise, didn’t it?” Missy snapped before turning to face Anahson, “he noticed when I put Clara into a Dalek casing almost straight away. I’d be really put out if I were you.”

“Missy, stop it,” the Doctor spat between gritted teeth.

As much as she tried to ignore the Time Lady’s taunts, Anahson felt all of her old doubts threaten to overtake her. She had been so sure of herself after Haida despite her grief, or perhaps because of it. She had thought on Gallifrey that she’d finally found her place in the universe, her abilities had been under her control and she had been contributing, had been of use and was part of the team that was going to take down the Valeyard and save the day. Now? She was just another slave, inhibited, denied her own agency and at the whim of a mad woman. For all the strength she thought she had, she had found herself shackled again.

“These aren’t just Anahson’s fears,” the Doctor was saying, hissing in Missy’s ear, “they’re the fears of an entire generation. An entire generation who had to run and hide because self-serving _idiots_ wanted things they were never meant to have. You _know_ how powerful that is.”

Around the corner, the footsteps took form. Three Overseers, bulking men with masks fused over their faces, Gremshall whips tightly gripped in their hands as they menacingly approached, blue tendrils trailing sparks behind them along the ground.

“You know what?” the Doctor hopped in front of Anahson, watching as her inhibitor shimmered and glowed. “You don’t need Missy to release you. It’s your brain, your mind, your free will. Fight for it, Anahson. Fight for it like you’ve had to fight for everything else.”

There was a loud electric _crackle_ and a bright blue flash as one of the automaton Overseers extended his arm and the coil of the whip tightly wrapped itself around the Doctor’s throat. He shouted with the pain and crumpled to his knees. Missy made as if to run away but the second Overseer was too quick even for her. He unfurled his whip and pulled back on it as it latched onto the Time Lady’s ankle. She crashed onto the hard ground with a yelp.

Anahson looked down at the Doctor as he half-rose to his feet only to be dragged back again. “You can do it, Anahson,” he croaked as she returned her attention to the third Overseer. The tallest of the three, he towered over her as he reached their section of the tunnel. He was a swarthy mass of muscle and sinew. In one fluid motion, he leaned back, flinging his arm behind him so that his whip cracked and sparked off the ground. With a blur his shoulder pivoted, his wrist gave a sharp flick and the electric blue arc of the Gremshall was reflected in his empty face mask as the whip curved, lightning fast, towards her.

* * *

The corridor was wide and featureless, brilliant white walls and floor replacing the sandstone of the stairway. Briefly, Clara thought they had passed through a rift and ended up somehow on Gallifrey again but, as the door they had just come through somewhat predictably vanished with a flash behind them, she abandoned that notion. This was a trap and they had walked straight into it.

Fine.

She’d been in plenty of traps before and this wasn’t even a subtle one. There was always a way out, she just had to find it and, in order to find it, she reminded herself, she had to start to act as though she had already won. The only other object of note stood at the opposite end from where they had entered, shining like a beacon although she suspected it was more of a lure, designed to reel them in.

“Okay,” Ashildr said behind her, voice raised to be heard over the din of the thunderous forges as they rumbled into an apparent crescendo, “what the hell is this?”

The Diner TARDIS stood invitingly, its door open to give a coquettish glimpse of the garish 1950’s interior, all chrome and red leather, barstools and ketchup bottles. The mural of Elvis beckoned to them like a calm harbour in a storm.

The weapons forges abruptly silenced. The absence of noise closed in all around them, dense and claustrophobic. Clara’s boot squeaked loudly on the marbled floor, making her jump as she took a tentative step forward and tried to piece everything together. What were the Mire doing here? Had they been pulled through the rift? Had they, she wondered, been brought through by the Valeyard on purpose?

“They’ve stopped,” Ashildr whispered next to her, “you know what that means.”

“They’re ready to harvest,” Clara nodded.

For a second they waited, completely motionless.

“Chances of us making it to the TARDIS before they teleport down?” Clara asked, trying to see if there was anything else in the room they could make use of, anything at all. Out of instinct, she and Ashildr circled each other until they were stood back to back, a stance they’d perfected relatively early into their travels.

“Slim to none. Chances of the Valeyard having left her fully operational?” Ashildr squinted as she tried to make out where the white floor met the white wall. It was barely possible to distinguish.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Clara chewed on her bottom lip. “We’re going to have to run for it though, aren’t we?”

“Always with the running,” Ashildr looked over her shoulder and caught Clara’s eye. “I don’t know why I’m scared,” she admitted, “it’s not like they can kill us, is it?”

“You really haven’t come across them since... ”

“Didn’t want to.”

“Fair enough.”

Ashildr looked away and resumed her scan of the room. “Sonic sunglasses?”

Clara unclipped the glasses inside her top pocket and quickly slipped them on. She groaned and removed them, frustrated. “Still out of commission. But maybe if we bluff it…”

“I like your thinking.”

With a crunch and a thud, a Mire scouting party materialised in the centre of the corridor, effectively blocking their route to the TARDIS. The five of them were in formation, their rusted copper armour standing out in stark contrast to the pristine blank that surrounded them. They raised their weapons in unison, pointing them at the two time travellers. Clara cleared her throat and held her sunglasses aloft.

“Take a good look, boys,” she called, adopting a cocky tone that she knew, or hoped, would make the Mire think twice about their prey. It had very almost worked before. They were bullies, she reminded herself, they would back off from any fight they couldn’t easily win. “What you’ll find in my hand is technology way beyond your primitive weapons. Heck, scan _us_ ,” she indicated to herself and Ashildr. “Firstly, if you’re looking for testosterone, you’re more or less out of luck; we’re barely a canapé, since we’re mainly fueled by good old oestrogen and progesterone. Well, she is. As you can probably tell, I’m dead and unharvestable,” she turned to Ashildr with a raised eyebrow, “‘unharvestable’, is that a word? Well, it is now…”

There was something about Ashildr’s expression that stopped her cold. Her friend looked terrified and suddenly very young. “Hey,” she said, under her breath, “come on, you know how we have to play this -”

“Clara, they’re not listening,” Ashildr said, quietly.

“What do you mean? Of course they are,” Clara turned back to look at the Mire. As one, they took a step forward and she heard their weapons charge.

“Oi!” Clara called, walking closer to them, “Are you paying attention in there? This is not a fight you want to start, do you hear me?” She felt Ashildr’s hand on her shoulder, an urgent, tight grip.

“Clara, run!”

The first shot struck the floor at Clara’s feet and she had to dive to the left to avoid it. Ahead of her, she saw Ashildr put on a burst of speed, heading straight towards the Mire. She quickly caught on and followed, racing at the clunky, armour clad soldiers and slipping in between them. With their sluggish movements and their limited peripheral vision through the red-lit slits in their headpieces, she knew they would have precious seconds in which the Mire wouldn’t be able to work out where their prey had gone, much less lock on target. She sprinted with her head down as she heard the lull in the firing. Sparing a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw the Mire slowly turning in tight circles, trying to not get their protruding arm chitin caught up in each other and she almost grinned. That was, until she looked up to where the TARDIS had been, only about fifty feet away and saw that somehow, impossibly, the corridor they were in had elongated, as if someone or something had stretched it. The TARDIS was no where near them. Clara swore.

“We’re not going to make it!” Ashildr puffed as the weapons fire started to hail above their heads again. They zigzagged in and out, as the energy blasts roared between them. Ashildr let out a gasp and dropped heavily to one knee. Clara was at her side in an instant, dragging her to her feet and pulling her along with as much forward momentum as she could muster.

“Grazed my shoulder,” Ashildr bit out as she waited for her chip to kick in and quell the pain. Suddenly, an intense heat blossomed across her back and she saw, rather than felt, the ground rising up to meet her. The Mire’s second shot had struck with deadly accuracy.

“Ashildr!” Clara was wrenched to the ground along with her, dropping so quickly that a shot aimed straight at her whizzed harmlessly overhead. Blinking and trying to rouse Ashildr, Clara froze as the white room seemed to flicker out of existence.

_What?_

It was as though someone was playing with a lightswitch in some unseen corner: when the lights were on, the Mire were bearing down on them, the TARDIS too far away to provide sanctuary. When they were off, they were back in the pyramid, in a much smaller room and practically tripping through the TARDIS’ door.

“Ashildr, did you see that?” The Viking groaned and came to a little as the white corridor reasserted itself and the Mire gathered around them. Clara did her best to cover Ashildr’s body with her own, praying that they wouldn’t be able to lock onto her like the Judoon hadn't been able to on the Justice Asteroid. She jostled Ashildr accidentally and felt the other woman’s sharp intake of breath as she lost consciousness, head lolling limply to the side. The white corridor vanished, along with the Mire and Clara saw her opportunity.

With a strength she didn’t realise she possessed, she hooked her elbows under Ashildr’s armpits and heaved with all her might. The door of the TARDIS was just metres away and she staggered them slowly, painfully, towards it. Ashildr groaned as she came partially round and a loud flurry of energy blasts hit against the front of the time machine, ricocheting off the impenetrable glass. Within moments, Clara felt the familiar cool tiles against her skin as she tumbled backwards, pulling Ashildr on top of her. A blind kick of her foot and she slammed the door shut, its bell twinkling merrily as the Mire continued to shoot as if they were on autopilot, their shots dispersing harmlessly across the TARDIS’ protective shell.

Clara let out a shaky sigh, smoothing the limp Ashildr’s hair away from her worryingly clammy forehead. They were safe.

For now.

* * *

Anahson threw herself to the ground and rolled across the metal tracks in the centre of the tunnel. Flinging her arm out to the side, she grabbed the torch Missy had abandoned and gripped it tightly in her hand. As the lash of the Gremshall whip reached her, she rolled in the opposite direction and held the torch up as high as she could at what she vainly hoped was the right angle. The end of the whip caught and wrapped itself around the middle. The looming Overseer pulled against it and Anahson was dragged towards him until she managed to dig her feet into the dirt and used the momentum to pull herself back up to her feet. Her breath forced itself out of her nose as every muscle she had screamed with the effort.

She stared wildly at the Overseer.

He was closer now, the arc of the whip cracking electrically between them. She couldn’t make out his eyes behind the mask, its black frontispiece matte and opaque. On second thoughts, she wasn’t entirely sure he _had_ eyes. If the Doctor was right, if this was some manifestation of her inner fears, it would have no need of vision, no need of teeth or lips that could smile. All it needed was menace and brute strength and it seemed to have those in abundance.

Anahson brought her other hand up until she was grasping the torch from both ends, her biceps trembling as she tried to get better purchase. At her temple, she felt the inhibitor burning as though it was searing directly into her skull. She couldn’t see the Doctor and Missy from this angle, didn’t have the time to check on them as the Overseer changed tactic and let the whip go slack as he advanced on her in two quick strides.

With a cry, she only just managed to maintain her grip on the torch as her left hand leapt to her throat defensively. The Overseer reached out and grasped her neck in a crushing chokehold. The mine seemed to veer dramatically to the side as she was hoisted easily into the air. Her back slammed against the wall with a sickening thud, the black crystals digging into her like broken glass under the force of the blow. Her breath stuttered as her lungs burned and her vision wavered. Anahson looked down at the impassive monster who held her in place. Distantly, she thought she heard the Doctor cry out her name. She tried to say something, to reassure him, but her larynx could only rasp and croak.

The Overseer pulled back and threw her into the wall again, higher, her rear face scraped against the roof of the mine and the part of her system that could see into the past momentarily blacked out. The rush of adrenaline that flooded through her immediately brought her back to her senses as she struggled for breath but the brief lapse in consciousness was enough... She had seen through the illusion and the Doctor was right, Anahson realised, they were still in the pyramid. The brief glimpse of stone, of a reality different from the one she thought she was in, spurred Anahson on. Reject this reality, she thought fiercely, she just had to reject this reality. And if she was feeding the mine, she reasoned, thinking for a moment with absolute clarity as though she had separated her mind from the torment her body was suffering, the illusion should crumble if she simply took herself out of the equation.

Out of the corner of her eye, right next to her head she could make out a blur of blue that jutted out of the wall next to her. _Unrefined Gremshall_. With as much strength as she could, Anashon lifted the hand that was still, miraculously, refusing to let go of the torch and with a hoarse battle cry, she brought it up to shoulder height, scraping the coiled mass of the whip up the wall with it. The whip burned a trail of hot sparks, filling the air with a liquid blue haze.

“Anahson, no!” She jerked her head to the left as she finally located the Doctor, sweat trailing down her temple until it hit her overheating inhibitor and evaporated with a hiss of steam. She was burning up from the inside out, aflame. The Doctor was shaking his head frantically, had clearly worked out her plan and didn’t want her to go through with it. She wasn’t the only one who remembered how powerful the unrefined version of Gremshall had been on Haida. She just hoped that if she directed it, if she got the timing right, it would enable her to sever the connection between herself and the Matrix first, allowing the Doctor - and Missy too, she supposed - to escape.

“Anahson!”

She wished she could say something to him, something profound to let him know she was doing this of her own free will. With the remaining dregs of her energy, Anahson lifted the torch just a fraction higher as the Overseer flexed his fingers and cut off the last of her air. A tiny spark produced by the whip flew and landed with precision on the largest crystal of Gremshall in the cluster. In a whooshing chain reaction, a blue wave of light erupted all around her and swallowed Anahson whole.

“No!” The Doctor stumbled forward onto his knees, crying out as they sharply hit off-yellow sandstone.

The Gremshall mine disintegrated around them, leaving him and Missy alone in the unremarkable room. He stared at where he had last seen Anahson, pinned to the wall with blue electricity arcing all around her. With a cry, he launched himself at Missy, bunching the lapels of her jacket in his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You,” he snarled, “what did you make her do?”

“That wasn’t me,” Missy gasped, shocked into the truth for once, “I disconnected from her as soon as we worked out it was a Matrix fabrication. I’m not an idiot, she wasn’t going to break free with me loitering in her noggin,” the Doctor growled as he shook her and Missy pulled away sharply. “I must say, I’m really rather impressed,” she panted, “I didn’t know she had it in her. That was almost ingenious.” After collecting herself for a couple of seconds, rubbing her ankle where the burn from the Gremshall whip still smarted, Missy stood up and looked around them.

“She’s still in there,” the Doctor said, slumping into a sitting position, “she’s trapped in the data slice.” He stared at the wall, lost, his eyes red-rimmed and unseeing.

“Data Sliver,” Missy corrected, “and I’m keeping the naming rights.”

“I don’t care what the hell you call it,” he snapped.

“Oh get over yourself man, she’s done us a favour,” Missy drawled, “we still have to get to the rift and put the Valeyard in his place yet. Or would you have rather died at the hands of one of those overgrown wrestlers?” Missy almost reached out a hand to touch his shoulder in a comforting gesture but thought better of it. “Besides, I thought that’s what your little companions were for,” she said instead, “a bit of cannon fodder.”

“Missy, you need to stop talking.” he ran a hand through his hair and tried to calm down his erratic heartbeats.

“Yes, please do, Missy,” came a third, entirely unwelcome voice from behind them. The Doctor scrambled to his feet and stared at the Valeyard who stood, swathed in streamlined black, only a few feet away from them. “Another thing we have in common, dear Doctor,” he sneered, “a low tolerance for inane bleating. Good for us both that I’ve thinned your herd a little.”

“Valeyard, you’ve gone too far this time,” the Doctor said, a cool hardness in his voice. He took a step forward only for the Valeyard to click his fingers. The scenery around them instantly altered.

They were on the top of the pyramid, the air thin and coated with a cool layer of mist from the shifting clouds gathered around them. Low walls announced the edge of the flat roof before the steps fell away to the ground, hundreds of feet below them.

Missy wandered over to stand next to him, her attention turned towards the large, intricately carved sacrificial plinth that stood in the direct centre of the roof. Three steps led to a curved arch which housed the shimmering, golden rift. Ripples of unstable time radiated out of it and the Doctor found he had to fight against the sudden need to be sick.

“Oh Doctor,” the Valeyard shook his head bemusedly, “I think you’ll find I’ve got a little further to go yet.”

* * *

Clara cradled Ashildr against her on the floor as she watched her friend’s face grow dangerously pale. She had managed to maneuver them into the console room and allowed the familiarity of their sanctuary to calm her for a moment until she figured out her next move. She rocked Ashildr backwards and forwards gently, waiting for the Mire chip to kick in and heal the damage. Outside, she could no longer hear the foot soldiers although she wasn’t about to risk stepping outside to confirm they had actually abandoned their quarry and gone back to their ship, wherever the hell it was.

“Come on Ashildr,” she muttered as her friend groaned slightly as though in pain, “you’ve bounced back from bigger than this.” Clara looked down as Ashildr struggled to open her eyes.

_Something is wrong. This is taking too long._

“Ashildr?” Gingerly, Clara laid the other woman flat on her back on the console room floor. With trembling hands, she unzipped Ashildr’s leather jacket and opened it before lifting the semi-conscious woman slightly and peering at her back where she suspected the weapon had struck. A large blast wound was visible across her shoulder blades, cauterised around the edges. There was no blood, just a faint trace of  trapped smoke spiralling upwards. Clara staggered back onto her haunches. It wasn’t healing. Why wasn’t it healing?

“Oh god, no,” she swore, moving her friend into the recovery position to try to make her  more comfortable. It was like man-handling a dead weight and the enormity of what was happening washed over Clara, making her feel nauseated. “Ashildr, what do I do?” Clara desperately glanced around the console room. The lights were dim, she could tell the console was inactive, wasn’t sure it was safe to fly the time machine even if she could, not with all the warping of time and space that she had witnessed outside. But she had to do something. She couldn’t just sit here and - what? - watch her immortal friend _die_?

Jumping clumsily to her feet Clara raced down the steps that led towards the medical bay only to find a matte, metallic wall where the passageway leading into the bowels of the time machine used to be.

“Oh come on! Now isn’t the time,” she pleaded with the ship, “is this you doing this or was it him? She needs your help. Please.” There was no response from the TARDIS. Clara braced her hands against the cool steel and hung her head, thinking. Her and Ashildr’s argument echoed in the back of her mind. This wasn’t fair. They deserved the chance to make it up to each other, didn’t they? They had been through so much together. Okay, Clara thought, _think_. She couldn’t get medical help. She couldn’t fly them away… Maybe she could broadcast a message? Let the Doctor and the others know where they were? Plan hastily assembled, she made her way back up the stairs to the console, trailing her hands over the commands as she navigated to the communications panel. None of the buttons were lit up and, experimentally, she pressed as many of them in as many sequences as she could remember, frustration mounting as they refused to comply. She balled her fingers into a fist and slammed it into the console.

“For god’s sake!” She looked down, her vision blurring with desperation as she heard Ashildr give a muffled groan from across the room. Beneath the main relay, the outline of a drawer she hadn’t noticed before caught her eye. Curious, she pushed at against the hidden panel and it slid silently open. Inside was a leather bracelet, more of a wide band. It was battered, covered in scorch marks and had protruding dials that looked as though they were just part of the design. Clara knew better.

 _Cheap and nasty time travel_.

It was Missy’s vortex manipulator. The Time Lady must have left it behind when she’d commandeered the Diner back on Haida, before it had fallen under the Valeyard’s control. Clara picked up the device and turned it over in her hands. She had no idea how to work it. It didn’t even seem to have any charge. She also knew from past experience that it would never be able to transport both her and Ashildr, even if she could figure it out. She sighed but fastened the manipulator around her wrist anyway. She wasn’t about to give up anything which might give her an advantage later.

Ashildr had gone quiet and Clara rushed back over to her side. Her friend had passed out again, her breathing shallow and uneven. Clara had heard that kind of breathing before, was for a moment transported back to a light and airy bedroom, painted all pastel colours to try and ward off the brutal ordinariness of death, the routine atrocity of a failing body. Gently, Clara tucked the Viking’s hair behind her ear from where it had fallen across her face.

“I’m so sorry, Ashildr,” she said, shaking her head with remorse, “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. You were only doing what you thought was right. If it wasn’t for you, the Raven would have…” she stopped talking, looked down at her left wrist where her tattoo stood out against her skin, the bird it depicted frozen mid-flight. She suddenly had a thought. Possibly a daft one, she admitted silently to herself, but at this point she was out of options.

“Raven,” she said out loud to the empty console room, “Quantum Shade. Show yourself.” The stillness inside the TARDIS seemed to mock her and Clara scrunched her face up stubbornly. “Look, I know you want to make sure I’ll return to the Extraction Chamber so you can eat my soul or whatever the hell it is you want to do with it. But right now that’s not looking like it’s going to happen. We’re stuck in here and my friend is dying. If I lose her -” her voice cracked a fraction, “then all this is over. And if the Valeyard wins, well, you’re a Quantum being, I doubt I’ve got to spell it out for you. This is bigger than you getting your payday; this is more important than me. I know you’re watching. I know you’ve heard about the prophecy, about how time is going to tear itself apart. Well it’s happening now and I think I’m supposed to be the one that stops it,” she paused and looked around the room. Not a hint of movement, not a single sign that anything was listening. She had never felt more alone.

Her wrist itched.

It was a tickling sensation, not entirely unpleasant, that she’d felt emanating from her tattoo before but had always brushed off as a nervous tic. She looked down at the design and pushed herself away from Ashildr as she saw the delicate black lines seemed to swirl underneath her skin. The ink lifted up and away from her, a tendril reaching tentatively upwards, climbing like a shy smoke signal. Clara watched in disbelief as the thin, black column of smoke undulated, solidified and turned into a Raven before her very eyes. It perched on the edge of the console, talons gripping onto the safety bar they had installed for bumpier landings, its beady eyes regarding her seriously.

Clara hesitated, unsure of herself.

“Hello,” she said, clamping down on her fear. She remembered how the old man on Trap Street had screamed in agony when the Shade had caught him, wondered if the same sound had been forced from her lips, whether it still haunted the Doctor’s memory. “Can you help us? Please. If you’ve been watching, if you’ve been following me all this time, you know the score. And if you know the score, then you know where we’ve got to be. Can you take us to him?”

The Raven cocked its head as though it was considering her words. Clara, completely unnecessarily, held her breath. With a ruffling of its feathers and a powerful flap of its wings, the Raven took flight and Clara flinched, not knowing what to expect. With a strong downward beat that breezed whirligigs of cool air through her still damp hair, the Raven vanished back into smoke and Clara felt her heart sink. But then, the smoky haze hovered above her for a moment until it seemed to expand and grow, reaching down and enveloping Clara in its folds. Ashildr lay still on the floor, and Clara panicked as she realised that she was outside of the cloud the Shade was creating.

“No, wait!” Clara shouted, trying to grab onto Ashildr’s hand or wrist, anything she could to pull her friend along with her. It was useless. She saw the mist solidifying around her as it held her tightly in place. The features of the console room faded from her sight as the Shade whisked her away.

* * *

Even the Valeyard was surprised when a swirl of black mist deposited something precariously close to the edge of the pyramid, although he quickly re-established his mask of indifference. Missy raised an impressed eyebrow as the Doctor darted forward, practically skidded onto his knees at Clara’s side. The mist dispersed, curling around her wrist and he noticed it sink into her skin. _The Shade_. Had the Shade finally caught up with her? What was it playing at, bringing her here? As the tattoo settled back into the image of a Raven on her wrist, the Doctor let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. He suddenly realised what the tattoo had been, why it had struck him as being so odd when they had met on the Shadow Proclamation back when he couldn’t remember who she was. Of course, if there was anyone who could turn a Quantum being intent on harvesting their soul into her own inter-dimensional taxi service, it was the small, scared human sat on the floor next to him. He folded his arms around her and briefly held her close.

“Clara -” he began, looking around, “where’s Ashildr?” He craned his neck to look at her face closely. She wasn’t crying, she wasn’t showing any expression at all. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, had never catalogued this absence of emotional affect in her before.

“She’s,” Clara eventually said, as though not sure exactly how to phrase it, “she’s in my TARDIS, we were attacked by the Mire.” She pulled away from him, finding it hard to meet his worried gaze.“Doctor, I think she’s _dying_.” He closed his eyes for a moment to ward off the guilt rising within him. Not Ashildr too. Clearly, their companions had been targeted with precision. The Valeyard had known exactly how to strike. They had to find some way to tip the balance back in their favour or this was all going to be over far too quickly.

“The Mire! The Mire are the only ones who can kill her,” Missy exclaimed from her spot a few feet away. “Why didn’t I think of that?” she smacked her palm into her forehead. “Of course, a species as bat-shit as the Mire wouldn’t want their medical chips to get in the way of tribal infighting; you don’t want the loser of a duel as your commanding officer, do you?” The Doctor could sense Clara’s ire, shook his head at her minutely when it looked as though she was about to lay into Missy. _Pick your battles_.

“Stand up,” came the Valeyard’s voice in a tone that suggested any patience he had was rapidly wearing thin, “and if you could be so good to hand over the Key of Rassilon, that would be wonderful.”

“I don’t have it,” replied the Doctor calmly as he gently helped Clara to her feet and guided her over to where Missy was stood. “Anahson had it. But, since you saw fit to trap her in the Data Slice, I suppose you’re going to have to go in there and get it for yourself,” he squeezed Clara’s arm as he felt her freeze as she noticed Anahson’s absence and what it meant, “I hope she makes you work for it.”

“I suppose, Doctor,” the Valeyard sounded almost weary as he reached into the lining of his jacket pocket, “that you have determined what is inside this box by now? And yet you still believe lying to me is a good idea?”

The Doctor licked his lips nervously as he stared at the small, silver container. “Concentrated Chronon radiation. Time energy. Strong enough to punch through the fabric of time and establish a Hexadimensional Net. Handy and pocket-sized, goes with any outfit - with the obvious exception of that one,” the Doctor’s scowl hardened as he appraised the Valeyard’s suit, “sorry to break it to you.”

“Why?” Clara asked, stepping forward with a frown, “what’s the point? You get to rewrite the Matrix, sure, fine. That, I get. But the universes will fall apart; what’s the point in rewriting it when you don’t have a future?”

“Oh god, don’t ask him that,” Missy groaned, “he’ll start banging on about how history is written by the victors, how he was never a real Time Lord, never one of the elite, denied regenerations, treated like a second class citizen. Hang on, I’ve got a tiny wee violin in here somewhere,” she mimed patting down her pockets.

“He’s not just going to rewrite the Matrix, Clara,” the Doctor said, turning to her, “he’s going to project it outwards using the universes he’s breaking down as a power source. At the exact point they fall apart, he’ll replace them with a reality all of his own. The Time of the Valeyard.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve always secretly wanted yourself, Doctor?” the Valeyard asked, genuinely sounding curious. “To have the universe do as it is told for once? Bend it to your will? You have meddled with its workings more than anyone, this is just a more efficient method.”

“You might as well admit it,” the Doctor barked a laugh as the rift shimmered invitingly under its arch, “you’re tearing Time apart because you don’t like how it’s treated you. You’re a petulant child.”

The Valeyard looked pointedly at Clara. “So you understand,” he said, coldly.

He turned and began to walk up the steps. Once he reached the top, he looked back and addressed them all. “You’re probably going to want to follow me,” he quirked an arched eyebrow, “the process is almost complete. This little rock is about to burn.” He sank into the light of the rift and was gone. Almost immediately, the sky darkened as a wide crimson scar coursed through the sky above them, chasing the clouds away. An eery stillness filled the air and the Doctor shuddered. It was unnatural, it wasn’t time for this planet to die.

“Missy,” he instantly turned to the Time Lady and bore down on her, “give me the Key. I know you’ve got it and he does too. However you’re thinking of spinning this to your own advantage, it’s not worth it.”

“Finders keepers,” she taunted as he attempted to grab her arm. She glared at him in disgust, danced out of his grasp, skipped up the few steps to the arch and jumped through the rift backwards, striking a dramatic pose as she did so. He’d hardly expected that to work, but never could give up hope when it came to his old friend. Every now and then, admittedly as rarely as at least a handful of astronomical phenomena he could list off the top of his head, they ended up on the same side.

“How can we leave?” she said desperately, drawing his attention. “Ashildr and Anahson. We can’t just leave them here.”

“The best chance we have to save them now is if we stop him,” the Doctor reassured her, casting a worried glance around them. They couldn’t stay here for too much longer, they had to work quickly. He led them carefully up the steps to the rift but stopped just shy of the beckoning golden portal. “Now listen,” he said, “we don’t have much time. If we stay here too long, they will notice but the distortion of the rift should mask us for five minutes, at least,” he stared into the rift and double-checked his calculations. Six minutes, thirty eight seconds. Six minutes and thirty eight seconds to convince her of what he had thought he was going to have to do alone. Now, however, there were a few more possibilities at his disposal. He’d never been more grateful for her company. Deliberately, he threaded his fingers between hers and held up their hands between them, as if to demonstrate their unity, their show of strength. He took in her nervous but determined expression, the set line of her jaw.

“Okay, so how do we stop him?”

“I’ve got a plan, Clara, and, if we’re very lucky, it might even work…”

“But? Why am I sensing a but?”

“Well,” he hesitated but tried to pass his fear off as nonchalance, “...it sort of involves me dying a bit.”

* * *

The only way of telling they had emerged on Eta Rho was the shabby, battered-looking green door that stood in the centre of the circle, sparse tufts of what remained of the moon’s shrubbery sticking up from around its base. The rest of the ground looked as though the life had been leached right out of it, as though technicolour had been replaced by monochrome. Spaced evenly around the circle’s circumference, the six satellite doors had vanished, eaten away and replaced by large wavering, billowing rifts which each had a thick tendril of light reaching out from within them, searching across the ground like creeping fingers as they danced towards and across the Seventh Door, unable to find a path through. Clara stepped closer to the Doctor as she felt him stumble slightly next to her.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, noticing his features looked drawn. From a glance around her, she saw Missy seemed a little shaken too, although the Valeyard was completely unaffected. Whatever the rifts were emitting, the Gallifreyan constitution could apparently sense it. The Doctor shook his head and gripped her hand tighter for a second before pulling himself together and letting go. It was time to get this party started. He clapped his hands appreciatively and Clara held back a tiny smile as she saw the Valeyard do the smallest of double-takes.

“Well, well, well,” the Doctor crowed, moving away from her and striding around the small circle, taking care to avoid touching the streams of light, stepping over one gingerly. That’s the one thing he’d stressed urgently in their rushed conversation on the pyramid: _whatever happens, don’t let any of the rifts touch you_. Clara shifted carefully closer to Missy and ran her fingers over the tattoo on her wrist. Here was hoping the Shade had been monitoring them and was as invested in the survival of the universe as it seemed to be. The Doctor, meanwhile, was just getting started.

“A Hexadimensional Net, as I live and breathe. Look Clara, Missy,” the Doctor held his hands up in a ‘ta dah’ gesture, “he’s made himself a super weapon!” Abruptly, he turned back to the Valeyard. “Nothing is ever enough for you, is it?” He asked, switching in an instant to righteous anger. “You were in the Matrix, all the knowledge of the Time Lords at your disposal. The past, the future. But what’s the point in that if you can’t hurt people with it, eh? If you can’t wreak destruction and death?”

“Oh, have we reached the part where you lecture me now, Doctor?” The Valeyard furrowed his brow in disdain. “You forget I was in your subconscious. I know the thoughts you harbour, the things you’d do to get your own way.”

“Then you’ll have also seen what I’d give up in order to do the right thing,” the Doctor snapped, his voice cracking with the force of his dismay. Something unspeakably sad rose up in the back of Clara’s throat. She clamped down on the feeling, focused instead on the itching sensation as a thin, discreet wisp of smoke emerged from under her sleeve. The Doctor had circled around to the opposite side from her now and was eyeing the rifts with thinly veiled suspicion.

“These are unstable, Valeyard,” he warned, “dangerously so. You won’t be able to control them. They’ll burn up the Matrix, you, everything. Give it up. It was only ever a theory, there’s a reason the research was abandoned.”

“Then give me the Key,” the Valeyard commanded from where he stood in front of the Seventh Door. “The longer it takes, the worse it gets and, unlike you Doctor, I don’t have anything to lose. I will burn us all if I have to and I will welcome the end with open arms.” Slowly, the Valeyard turned to face Missy. “The Key, Mistress. Now. I will not ask you a second time.”

Clara watched Missy carefully as the Shade gradually drew closer, rose up and drifted across the lapel of the Time Lady’s jacket, nearly invisible. In a rare moment of good luck, her attention was distracted by the man in black in front of her.

“Now, now, Boneyard,” Missy drawled, “that’s hardly the way to treat your old comrade in arms, is it?” She took a couple of steps towards him, smiling beatifically. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been able to gather the energy to make your pretty little box of tricks in the first place. So how about we make a deal, hmm? For old times’ sake?”

“Missy…” the Doctor’s warning went unheeded but Clara knew it was pretty much what he had expected from her. She wondered how much of the disappointment in his voice was genuine and how much was for show. She watched as Missy trotted precariously close to one of the other rifts before dancing away from it. One of the loose tendrils reached towards the Time Lady as though it was sniffing her out. Alarmed, she risked a quick glance at the Doctor. From the look on his face, he’d seen it too.

Missy suddenly stopped moving, turned her head sharply to the side and looked at Clara, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Oh, very clever,” she said as she quickly slapped a hand firmly against her jacket pocket.

 _Too late_ , Clara thought.

With an unexpected squawk, the Raven materialised out of thin air, something silver held in its talons. The Key of Rassilon. Clara grinned at the Doctor as she heard the Valeyard’s shout of anger. In one swift movement and the faintest hint of a puff of black cloud, the Raven vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

“You fool!” the Valeyard rounded on the Doctor. “Bring it back, bring it back right this instant.”

“From where?” the Doctor shrugged, his face a show of wide-eyed innocence, “I’m fairly certain that was the Quantum Shade. It can travel across dimensions and time at will. Pretty hard to track, from what I’ve heard. Clara, you’re familiar with the Shade, what do you think?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Clara smiled at the Valeyard impishly although a huge part of her was terrified for what she knew was going to happen next, “I think your key’s a goner.”

“Doctor, you’re an idiot,” Missy finally spoke up, gesturing around at the shifting tendrils of energy on the floor. The light from each portal was burning noticeably brighter than before. Clara felt something electric and hot ripple across her skin, like a heat wave emanating from a briefly opened oven door, heralding another ruined soufflé. “You were right,” Missy said, “the Net is unstable. Without access to the Matrix, there’s no way to control the energy. You’ve just signed the death warrant of six universes,” she paused, thinking, “...not a bad evening’s work. Now tell me you’ve got an exit strategy and let’s leg it. I’ll even let you bring the puppy.”

“Not quite, Missy,” he responded with a rueful smile, “although thank you for your eventual co-operation, late as ever.”

If Clara had been breathing, she would have held her breath. This was the moment she was most unsure of, felt like she’d been dreading her whole life although it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he’d hurriedly outlined the plan to her, all reassurances and tender fingers tucking hair behind her ears as she had ordered him to find another way.

There hadn’t been one.

The Doctor walked over to the Seventh Door and looked it up and down. The Valeyard held the silver box aloft.

“Stay away from the door, Doctor,” he lifted the lid a fraction and white hot light fought amongst itself through the gap.

“Or you’ll what?” the Doctor scoffed, “Kill me? Because two minutes ago you were going to burn up six universes. Never start with your biggest threat, right Clara?” The Doctor looked at her and lifted his eyebrows. She stared back, remembering the first time she had seen this particular, beloved face and how at odds they had been. How far they’d finally come. How much he meant to her.

In his own way, she knew he was hedging his bets, saying goodbye just in case. “And anyway,” the Doctor added, “the energy in that box belongs to me, to Clara and I, and I’m willing to bet it will just bounce off me like it did on the Last Planet. But by all means, give it a go.”

Deliberately, the Doctor touched his finger to the engraved keyhole on the Seventh Door. With a frown, he focused until a faint ripple of golden light passed over the pale skin of his hand and transferred into the door itself. “This,” he said, looking up at the Valeyard, “is a little trick I learned from Davros, believe it or not. Give a little bit of energy,” he bit back a wince, “and this door, well, it’s going to just keep taking.”

“Doctor, no,” Missy took a couple of steps forward, stepped over the nearest snaking trickle of energy hastily, “this is…”

“This,” the Doctor interrupted, directing his anger at the Valeyard, “in case you’d forgotten, _Graveyard_ , is the other way a Time Lord can enter the Matrix. But it’s an exclusive invitation, I’m afraid. No plus ones, just me. We get uploaded when we die.” The Valeyard’s normally unflappable demeanour wavered for a moment as he tried to piece together what was happening. The Doctor was happy to oblige: “By my calculations, regeneration energy, a whole cycle of deaths in one sitting no less, will leave just enough me left to open the door, complete the Net and then, if I’m clever,” he winked at Clara, “and we all know that I am exceptionally clever so let’s not be coy about it... I should be able to undo all your hard work and put... everything back... the way it was. The way it should be.”

Despite his bravado, Clara could tell the Doctor was suffering. His voice was straining, tendons stood out more starkly in his neck, tight against the collar of his shirt. With a grunt, he dropped onto one knee. Clara quickly crossed over to him, crouched down next to him as close as she could dare, even as he held out his other hand to ward her off.

“Stay back, Clara,” he warned.

“You’re in pain,” she told him.

“Yes, thanks for letting me know, I hadn’t noticed,” his teeth were gritted as he tried to smile. Clara looked up at the door and saw it was starting to glow the same hue as the Doctor’s skin as the regeneration energy seeped out of him. His blue eyes bore into her as she looked back at him.

“You see, Valeyard?” he asked, not shifting his attention from Clara, “This is something you could never have foreseen. Because you’re a coward. You have no understanding of what this is. This is what it looks like when you give up something precious to do the right thing. This is what it looks like when you make a sacrifice.”

It might have been Clara’s imagination, but she could have sworn she saw the ghostly visages of the Doctor’s former selves pass across his face like a family slide show projected across his skin. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Doctor...” she said, her words dying painfully somewhere in her throat. His blue eyes flashed and she forced a wide smile at him. “...Give him hell.”

Out of nowhere, Clara felt herself being lifted up into the air. She gave a cry of alarm as she saw the rifts, Missy and the Doctor falling away beneath her. The Valeyard had opened the box fully and all of the remaining energy was streaming out of it, all of it congregating hotly at the back of her neck. _The back of her neck_.

“No!” she screamed as she felt her countdown tattoo lift away. The rest of the Chronon energy harmlessly surged around her, as unable to injure Clara as it was the Doctor. But it wasn’t Clara the Valeyard was looking to hurt. She crashed back down to the floor, skidding across the cracked, dry mud and coming to a halt only inches from one of the tributaries of energy that was now winding with more purpose towards the Seventh Door. Groggily, she raised her head up and was surprised to see Missy racing towards the Valeyard as, just above their heads, the Quantum Shade - plucked from time and dragged back to this godforsaken moon - did battle with the bright white light that had been unleashed from its confines. Clara tried to stand but couldn’t, her limbs wouldn’t cooperate. There was a ringing in her ears she couldn’t shake.

She felt weird. Off kilter.

The Doctor was unable to move, was still on his knees in agony and linked inextricably to the Door, but she heard him cry out to her, although the words were lost in the melee. She couldn’t see him properly through the black smoke of the Shade as it valiantly coiled with the Chronon energy in the space between them, winding around each other, a whirling dervish. The silver box lay discarded on the ground beneath them, empty at last.

“You see, Doctor,” she dimly heard the Valeyard saying, his plummy voice distant and muffled as though her head was underwater, “the thing about the Shade, as you rightly boasted, is that it’s a Quantum being. It is also legion. Which means it hadn’t strictly left us. It was still present in the chronolock on your precious human’s neck,” he paused, plucked something from the air with a smile of triumph and held it up until it glinted in the reflected glow of the rifts, “-A ha!” Blearily, Clara could make out the Key of Rassilon clutched between his fingers. The Valeyard continued, “And I think you’ll find a time-loop can be undone, given enough Chronon radiation. You’re not the only one with a few tricks up their sleeve.”

Clara could tell the instant the Shade lost the fight.

There was a bright flash as the Chronon gained the upper hand, almost as though it was sentient. The Shade struggled one last time, transforming helplessly into the Raven and back into smoke again in quick succession, its wings flapping frantically as it tried to fly away each time the bird took form. With a pitiful caw, it capitulated and, as it was overcome, the black cloud briefly suspended in the air, completely motionless, its undulations finally stilled. After a long moment, the cloud fell silently to the ground as a small shroud of blackened dust.

It was also at that very second - for the first time since before her trip to the second most beautiful garden in the universe - that Clara Oswald lost consciousness.

* * *

The General ducked to avoid a low-hanging fibreoptic cable as they exited Lift Shaft 7 and emerged into the Cloisters behind Rassilon and Meryllda. She watched from the corner of her eye as the Sliders patrolled the inner depths beyond the stone columns. Rassilon and Meryllda stood next to the hidden trap door the Doctor had used to escape into the workshops. They always seemed to be returning to this spot and the General was more or less convinced now that this was where everything had started to go wrong. A red light spread across the floor from within the lift, a warning that this level was unsafe. That was putting it mildly. The light mixed with the ever present mist hovering around their ankles, making it look as though they were wading through a lingering spray of blood. The General wondered if her thoughts would ever truly be free of war and death. Perhaps not. She had seen too much throughout her many regenerations, and the Time War had left an unspeakable, indelible mark on them all. Hopefully, if they could work together to rectify their current crisis, it would go some way towards righting the balance. With a jolt, the General found she understood the Doctor and his inability to leave well enough alone better than she ever had before.

“I thought the Cloister Bells were supposed to be ringing,” Rassilon remarked.

“They are,” Meryllda said, “we’ve had to set up a dampening field. They’ve been peeling non-stop and they were deafening the guard we had posted.” The General was pleased to note a look of surprise on Rassilon’s normally passive face.

“You posted a guard in the Cloisters?” Rassilon knew better than any of them that usually, in normal circumstances, the Cloisters protected themselves and did so without mercy. There had never been need for a guard before. Rassilon was about to be brought face to face with the ramifications of his actions.

“You’ll see why in a moment,” if the General didn’t know better, she would have said Meryllda sounded a little too pleased to be privy to information the former Lord President was not. Well, when everything was so monumentally uncertain, the General supposed you had to take the small victories where you could get them. Rassilon looked impatiently around, his hands on his hips as though his time was too precious to be wasted.

And then, they all felt it.

This deep in the bowels of the Citadel, any variation in space time, any anomaly, was much more pronounced. The General felt a drop in her stomach, a tingling across her skin that even under her armour caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand to quivering attention. When she and Gastron had left to follow Lonkath to visit the Shade, the anomaly had been nowhere near this strong. Clearly, the situation had deteriorated.

“I assume you can feel that, Rassilon?” Meryllda asked, keeping her voice level and sure. It was probably testament to Rassilon’s overinflated opinion of himself that he did not outwardly react, save for a millisecond pause before he responded.

“Of course, no one knows the Matrix better than I,” Rassilon ground his teeth. “There’s a rift. A rift within the Matrix. Which means somebody has created a Hexadimensional Net,” the inner scientist of the former Lord President that the General had not glimpsed for longer than she could remember was finally visible as Rassilon crouched down and ran his hand over the Gallifreyan symbols the Doctor had used to escape so long ago, “and the confluence is the Seventh Door.” He looked up at them, his face thunderous as his voice deepened with barely contained rage. He stood upright again, “I warned you the Doctor would bring about the end of us all. I warned you!”

The General shared a glance with Councillor Meryllda before taking a step forward.

“This is the work of the Valeyard, not the Doctor. As I’m sure Councillor Lonkath informed you before you murdered him, the Valeyard made good on your offer to escape from his exile in the Matrix and this,” she nodded down to the ground, “is the result.”

“What exactly are you trying to say, General?”

“You are right when you say no one knows the Matrix better than yourself, Rassilon,” the General intoned, “which is why you’re going to find a way to protect it from whatever the Valeyard has planned.”

“To protect it? Why do you think the work on the Hexadimensional Net was abandoned? _There is no way to protect it_!” Rassilon flecked spittle into the air as he spoke. “And for the record, General,” he spat the title, “you know as well as I that the Doctor and the Valeyard are one and the same. You should have let me end him when I had the chance.”

The General took a step forward and she could feel Gastron do so in support just behind her. “Rassilon,” she began, warningly...but she didn’t get the chance to finish.

The Wraith, who had been silently sliding around on the outskirts of their group for the duration of the increasingly heated conversation, suddenly made their move. As one entity, they sped towards the small circle, encroaching from all sides.

“General,” it was Gastron calling to her, urgent as he realised they had effectively been surrounded. But their weapons would do no good against the Cloister Wraiths, no good at all. The General stared at Rassilon as she noticed with dismay that he did not seem in the least bit surprised by the turn of events. Possibly, he even looked impressed. Satisfied, even.

“General,” it was Gastron again as they were inched further onto the small design etched into the stone floor, backs pressed against each other like meekly rounded up cattle. Councillor Meryllda gave a cry of alarm, “their faces, General, look at their faces…” Gastron trailed off.

As she tensed herself in preparation for what was surely going to come, her shoulders braced and elbows out, she stared up at the flickering black and white faces that surrounded them. The General’s eyes widened in alarm as she recognised the ghostly visages that filled the collar shells. Each face was the same, glowering down at them, not silently screaming like the Wraith had always done. Instead, a menacing smile pulled up the corners of each pair of lips, a manic shine emanated from glittering dark eyes that watched their every move with thinly veiled contempt.

The Valeyard. Every Wraith had become the Valeyard.

They were too late.

She had gambled and lost: the Doctor and Clara Oswald had not been able to save them. No power in the universe could possibly save them now. She had failed in her duty and the time had come to pay the ultimate price. She let out a breath and a telepathic prayer of apology to any higher being that might be listening.

 _I surrender_.

The General closed her eyes one final time as the Wraith broke across the outer circle and bore down upon them.

* * *

He couldn’t move. His energy was still flowing out of him and he couldn’t move. Knees digging into the dirt, he had watched helplessly as Clara had been lifted into the air, then tossed to the side like a ragdoll. He thought he’d seen her watching him as the Shade and the Chronon energy fought it out but she had slumped as soon as the Shade had been defeated and hadn’t moved since. The Valeyard loomed over him, Key in hand and it was the most the Doctor could do to raise his head to look up at the rogue Time Lord.

The Valeyard regarded the Doctor the same way a scientist might examine a specimen under a microscope. He made as if to reach out towards him but stopped short at the sound of Missy’s voice.

“Don’t,” she ordered.

“You’re hardly in a position to be making demands,” the Valeyard scoffed, “or are you wanting to supplicate yourself before me again now I’ve got the upper hand?”

“Hardly. But you can’t kill him.”

“Whyever not?”

“Well, I’m never entirely sure myself but I imagine because it would be hopelessly boring and easy,” the Mistress drawled as she carefully walked closer, hands clasped behind her back. She gestured to where the Doctor was knelt. “I mean, he’s done half the work for you.” It was taking all of his focus to keep his breathing under control but he suddenly got the impression that Missy, for once in all the ages they had known each other, was stalling for time instead of rushing it along.

It was working, he could feel the stirring of the Matrix’s influence on the dim outskirts of his consciousness. A few minutes longer and all his energy would be drained. He, and only he, he would be able to enter the Matrix and the damage the Valeyard had done could still be reversed. He stayed quiet as the agony shot through his body. He was starting to see it almost as atonement. If this is what it took to rectify all his mistakes leading to this point, so be it. If this is what it took to put an end to the Hybrid once and for all, he would accept his fate gratefully.

“On top of that,” Missy added, circling closer as the Valeyard edged towards the Door, “you seem to have killed his pet,” she gestured over to where Clara was crumpled on the ground, “and I’d hate to miss his reaction to that. Last time she died, he tore the universe a new one. We’re still living the damage right at this very moment. Who knows what my poor, broken little not-so-Hybrid-anymore will do next?”

The Doctor saw Missy’s hands tighten on something behind her back as she drew within striking distance of the Valeyard. His hearts sank. Of course, she wouldn’t trust his plan enough to allow the clock to tick down. Of course, she had to resort to violence. Unfortunately, if this was obvious to him, it would be obvious to the Valeyard as well.

As soon as she brought the particle disintegrator - who knew exactly where she’d been hiding it - round to face the Valeyard, he was ready for her. The Valeyard lunged towards the Seventh Door, severing the Doctor’s tie with it as he slapped the Key of Rassilon onto the etchings that formed the keyhole. As soon as the Valeyard’s hand made contact with the Door, the Doctor’s regeneration energy redirected and began to flood up the rogue Time Lord’s arm, following the path of least resistance. It rapidly made its way up his shoulder and across his back so that when the particle disintegrator hit, Missy would never have missed, it harmlessly dispersed itself amongst the golden waves quickly spreading across his body.

Missy swore and tried again, raising her arm with a fierce glare. But she was distracted, took too large a step to the left and that was all it took. A sliver of energy wafted in the disruption of her footprint and a delicate thread followed Missy’s heel, tentatively reaching towards her. And then, after the briefest of contacts, Missy vanished. Just like that. One moment she was there, large as life, and the next...gone. The Doctor fell forwards onto his hands and knees with a cry as the Valeyard let out a triumphant laugh. The last remnant of regeneration energy dwindled and absorbed itself into its new host.

Almost incidentally, quietly, the Seventh Door opened.

With a deafening _whoosh_ , each of the rifts erupted towards the doorway and the glaring white void beyond its weathered frame. The Doctor sagged face down into the dirt and covered his head with his hands. Even the Valeyard staggered quickly to the side, hiding behind the solid weight of the door as if surprised by the force of the power that was being expelled. It didn’t take long. Six universes and it really didn’t take long at all.

The flow of energy stuttered and died, almost as suddenly as it had begun. Once he’d ascertained the coast was clear, the Valeyard emerged from behind the green door and peered into the Matrix, holding a hand out to feel the surge in its possibilities. His dark eyes flashed with greed and, taking a moment to step back, he smoothed his hands over his hair and down his suit, making sure he looked pristine. Unable to resist, he turned to face the Doctor.

“You almost had me there,” he admitted, as though it could resettle the score somehow. The Doctor tried to get up but all his breath rushed out of him with the force of the effort. “Don’t worry though, Doctor,” the Valeyard intoned. “I’m not completely heartless. I won’t kill you. Instead, you can watch it all unfold. The end of things. Competely helpless and unable to do anything about it, much as I was for years in the deepest recesses of your mind. See how you like it.” The Valeyard stepped into the doorframe, his distinctive silhouette framed in the absolute centre, the contours of his face cast into sharp relief by the kaleidoscopic light the Matrix emitted. He looked down at the exhausted Time Lord on the floor at his feet.

“Goodbye, Doctor.”

The Valeyard stepped through into the Matrix and, as soon as the light had swallowed him, the Seventh Door disappeared from sight.

The Doctor panted into the dirt, every single fibre of his being screaming in pain from using up so much energy in one go. He spat out the small clumps of mud and grass which clung to his lips as he forced himself to shut the discomfort down and ignore. The ground beneath him gave an experimental groan and lurch.

 _Move_ , he shouted at himself. _Move_.

A tendril from the one of the spent rifts danced erratically across the ground, lost as the connection between it and the Matrix had been terminated. The ground shook again, as though the moon was recoiling in horror at the abomination that had formed on its surface. The Doctor pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and began to scramble frantically towards where Clara was still lying on the ground.

Missy was gone, the Valeyard was victorious, he was not going to lose Clara as well. He wasn’t quite done yet, never been very good at admitting defeat. The rifts were still active, rapidly fading but it was taking time for the disintegration to trickle through. There was a chance.

He had to be quick.

A final branch of energy passed inches away from his hand and the Doctor held still as it regretfully merged back into the closest rift whose light was shining a fraction brighter than the others. The Doctor stared at it, feeling something tugging in his chest, enticing him towards it. He frowned, not sure if this was a side effect of losing his regenerations or if the sensation was accurate. Not that it mattered, the consequences of doing nothing far outweighed the risks of trying. _Wasn’t that always the case?_

Focus, focus. Focus on what’s important. Keep moving, get to Clara.

The path in front of him finally cleared and he scurried as quickly as his dizziness and disorientation would allow until he was by her side.

Clara was pale, drawn, deathly still.

Terrified, the Doctor reached a hand out and pressed his fingers against her neck. The madness around him faded and the only thing that existed was the faint lump in her throat where her carotid artery rose underneath her skin. The Valeyard had destroyed the Shade. The Chronon energy couldn’t hurt Clara, she’d been its co-creator. There was every chance, the Doctor reasoned, pleading with the universes that they would grant him this one last wish before they succumbed, that she was not dead. There was every chance, the Doctor reasoned, as he felt a slight thrum under the sensitive pads of his fingers that she was exactly the opposite. And if that was the case - there was that thrum again, stronger this time - then, the Doctor thought, there was hope. And hope was everything.

With an almighty gasp of air, Clara Oswald sat bolt upright, sending the Doctor reeling backwards onto the balls of his feet with shock. Her eyes were wide and panicked, her hands rising up to her throat as she stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as she choked and coughed and spluttered.

All at once, time restarted for him; the trembling of the moon underfoot, the hot, electric prickle across his skin as, one by one, the rifts faded to barely distinguishable pricks of light before vanishing, casting the desolate moon into eternal darkness.

All except for one.

One was taking longer to dissolve than the others. And that single fact solidified his admittedly limited course of action.

The Doctor used whatever was remaining of his strength, some reserve he had been secretly been harbouring without even realising it, to pull himself and Clara into an undignified stand. She clutched against him and almost fell back down. She couldn’t breathe, all her physical systems were being overwhelmed as they restarted but he could tell from the way her eyes sought out his that even in her current state, she had worked out what had happened. They had lost, they had to retreat.

With stumbling, awkward steps, the Doctor dragged them over to the one remaining rift as it shrank before their eyes. No more time to think. Only seconds left in which to tighten his grip on Clara and fling them into the pool of fading golden light.

* * *

Together, they fell onto a hard, dusty, concrete surface. They rolled to a noisy halt, the Doctor’s arms still wrapped firmly around Clara’s waist. She struggled against him, panting hard as she hyperventilated, so unused to breathing that the air was making her head spin, the mechanics of it all causing her to panic and overthink. She gasped and choked, eyes watering as she fought against him. He sat them up but kept them at a slightly reclined angle, knowing that human lungs responded better in this position.

“Clara, please,” he pleaded, tightening his grip and resting his chin on her shoulder as he tried to soothe her. “Breathe, just breathe…” It wasn’t working and her inhalations were becoming whooping, painful hacks. Without looking at their surroundings - although he was fairly certain he knew where they were; there was really only one place they could be, only one place he would be able to sense - he lifted his hand and flattened it against her chest, pulling her back into him more fully as he curled his body around hers.

“In and out, Clara, my Clara,” he half-whispered, aware his voice was breaking despite his best efforts. Using his other hand to move her hair away from her ear and neck as he tentatively felt for her racing pulse again, he tried his best to clear his scattered thoughts, project an aura of calm,“Do what I’m doing, match my breathing. Come on, you can do it.”

Behind them, the rift vanished without fanfare and they were left bathed in ethereal yellow light. Slowly but surely, Clara’s breathing started to come under control. He could feel the force with which she was concentrating on the simple action of _in_ and _out_ as her consciousness brushed against his due to their proximity. He had missed that feeling so much since she had been time-looped and could do nothing to stop the blossoming feeling of warmth that spread through him, almost dizzying. She must have somehow felt it too - that link of theirs - as she reached her hand up and laid it over where his helped her to keep track of the rising and falling of her chest. Her gasping had stopped now, she was simply out of breath but, for a moment, just one selfish moment, he clung to her as though the world was still in the process of ending, as if it hadn’t already gone.

He realised he was still speaking to her although he hadn’t noticed he was doing so out loud. Mumbled apologies: apologies for Anahson, Ashildr, for Missy, for everything that had happened. All their sacrifices had been in vain. They had lost it all.

“I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m so, so, sorry.”

At that, she removed her hand from his and reached up and across herself to place it against his cheek. With a slight pressure, she pulled his head further down over her shoulder, turned into him and, stretching her neck, closed the distance between them, angling her lips against his. Despite the appalling timing and how horrendously inappropriate it should have been, the Doctor felt a shot of electricity glide down his spine as he opened his mouth to her and clutched desperately at her shoulders, her back, as she scrambled around to face him, barely breaking contact. This was the final expression of all of their losses, their relief, their terror, their friendship. Affirmation. Everything. He felt it all course through him, bringing him back to limited life, giving him hope as he made a sound in the back of his throat he didn’t think he’d ever made before, ragged and distraught. His fingers carded through her hair, lips bruising and tongues duelling as her clawing enthusiasm pushed him so his back was flat against the ground and she was astride him, her hands holding the sides of his head tightly as though he too might disappear at any moment.

They broke apart as suddenly as they had started and stared at each other wildly, their hot breath staggered and mingling in the infinitesimal space which separated them.

“Sorry,” Clara panted, as she smoothed his hair where she’d more or less destroyed it, “I just -” she shrugged, still a bit frantic, “Alive. Pulse. Everything else. And you were there, and -”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he reassured her, pushing himself into a sitting position as she climbed off him, hastily and unsteadily rose to her feet and held out a hand to help him up. He took it gratefully and let go as soon as he was standing. His gaze darted around as he tried to calm his own staccato heartbeats. He flapped his arms by his sides experimentally, not sure what else to do in this newly exhausted body, as Clara’s hands leapt to her mouth and her eyes widened with delayed shock.

“Oh god, what are we _doing_?” she said, her expression horrified. “We’ve lost everything, everyone. The Valeyard has won... and we’re snogging on the floor?” She sounded disgusted at herself, paled at the thought of it. “This is what we were warned about. This is what Ashildr -”

“No.” The Doctor was so resolute that Clara had to stop her panicking and just look at him. “Don’t regret it, Clara,” he said, more softly, “never regret it.” They stood staring at each other, a golden glow dancing across the specks of dust that filled the space between them.

“...I don’t, that’s what terrifies me,” she slowly admitted as she gravitated closer to him, let him place his hands on her shoulders and rub them reassuringly, “I am so glad you’re still with me, that you’re not… Are you okay?”

“No,” he said, quietly, “I feel... _finite_.”

He ran a hand through his hair and felt Clara gently tangle her fingers with his other hand  where it had dropped back down loosely to his side from her shoulder. She gave him time to work through it, allowing herself a few moments to calm down as well, get used to have a racing heartbeat again.

“Look where we are,” the Doctor gestured with his chin, changing the subject away from his newly shortened lifespan. Clara lifted her gaze away from his and realised that the rift had thrown them out in an all too familiar location: the Cloisters on Gallifrey, crumbling and ruinous. Five minutes from the end of Time and all around them stars were dying. An impossible place.

“How?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” the Doctor found himself on more comfortable footing, trying to solve a mystery. He reached automatically into his pocket for his sonic screwdriver but stopped himself just in time. No sonic, that was lost too, to all intents and purposes. He kicked at some of the dirt on the ground, scattering a small avalanche of sand into the Gallifreyan etchings almost eroded away in the cracked slabs under their feet. “No chairs or chess-set,” he mused aloud, “no Me, so this isn’t our universe. We’re not about to appear in your TARDIS, I don’t think.”

“Okay, is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

He looked at her, never more aware that he didn’t have all the answers. He walked carefully around the circumference of the Cloisters, held his hand up to the invisible force-field that was holding everything in place… _Of course_. He pushed his hand against it more firmly and saw the barrier shimmer. He turned to look at Clara as his mind filled with possibilities.

“Reality bubble,” he said, pushing again to demonstrate, “remember? Ashildr was waiting for us at the end of Time in a reality bubble after we ran away from Ohila and the General.”

“If this isn’t our universe -”

“It isn’t, but -”

Clara wobbled slightly on her feet and he dashed back to her side to keep her upright. Her blood pressure was dropping after the adrenaline rush and she wasn’t used to it anymore. Indicating she should turn around, he brushed her hair away from her neck and checked that the countdown tattoo was still missing. He brushed his fingers gently over her unmarked skin and allowed himself a very small, tight smile. _She was alive_.

“But?” Clara prompted. She turned to face him and recognised the gleam in his eye. A glimmer of hope rose up inside her, unbidden. “Doctor?”

“Question:” he whirled away from her, scrubbing both hands through his hair roughly. “Why would the Valeyard allow us even the hint of a chance of escaping to the one place and time in six universes that _isn’t_ disintegrating? That can’t disintegrate? Answer: he wouldn’t. It’s the last thing he wants. He wanted us to see his victory, he didn’t want us to survive it.”

“So we’re here, what? By accident? Coincidence?” Clara frowned as the Doctor patted down the pockets of his velvet jacket, looking for something.

“There’s no such thing as coincidence. Well,” he corrected, arresting his movements as his thoughts became distracted, “I mean, there is, but generally they’re not what humans have defined them as. They’re actually a species of very nice -”

“Doctor, the universe is literally ending,” she couldn’t hide the excitement that found its way into her voice, however. Despite everything that was happening, had happened, they had a chance if they were together, she realised. There was always a chance they could set this right and neither of them would ever, ever give up until they found it or died trying. She had thought, when the rifts had opened, that everything was over. And yet here they were. She had thought, when he had forgotten her, that they would never be together again. And yet here they were. She had thought, when she had died...

“So, not a coincidence,” he continued, ruefully, “very far from it. Think about it. Think about the places we saw the rifts, think about what Missy said was used to tear the holes in the universe in the first place.” Clara shook her head, confused. “Energy from _us_ ,” the Doctor clarified. “The first thing the Valeyard did when he emerged from my subconscious was to go on a trip across our timeline, with Missy’s help, of course. And every time he went to where we had been, he took something,” the Doctor stepped closer to her, in full swing. He held up his index finger and thumb about an inch from the end of her nose and she had to pull her head back to focus on them. “A tiny bit of energy. From Akhaten, from the Last Planet, from London... _Change._ Significant events in time, when our actions altered the course of events. The most powerful energy ever created. The wrong kind of change at the right time, the right kind of change at the wrong time. It can bring countries to their knees, destroy worlds, tear universes apart. It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Clara nodded, slowly starting to understand the magnitude of what the Valeyard had done.

“Now look at where the rifts have been: the Last Planet, Trap Street, tied up with the Mire, enabling him to recreate the Mines on Haida…” the Doctor trailed off as the memory of Anahson washed over him, blue light consuming her whole. In the back of his throat he tasted bitter regret. He swallowed against it. “And now we’re here,” he gestured widely with his arms, “Gallifrey, the Cloisters. Where there was a whole different kind of time energy. A significant moment. It must have seeped into the ground the last time we were here, it was probably the first sample he collected, fresh from the Matrix itself,” he looked at the broken and cracked surface of the small bit of rock they were stood on as though he could scan its constituent parts with the ferocity of his glare.

“From when you killed the General?” the Doctor looked briefly hurt that she had put it so bluntly, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you, it wasn’t your finest hour.”

“Not that,” he replied, softly. “Something pure but belonging to us. A conversation. A confession. Far more powerful than exploding old gods, space trains or solar flares.”

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh.”

“Yes,” he gave her a smile so beautiful that she was momentarily convinced her heart been time-looped all over again, “and now that moment has been preserved because the reality bubble Ashildr made is the only thing that’s left. And the walls between the universes had grown so thin with the creation of the Net, the bubble’s been leaking through into all of them, unbeknownst to old Boneyard. So here we are.”

“‘The only thing that’s left?’” Clara echoed hollowly as the Doctor rummaged again in one of his inner jacket pockets. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this or why he suddenly seemed so enthused, but her newly beating heart sank. They _were_ the Hybrid; everything they had ever done together had been used against them and the universe had finally paid the price.

“You still have your TARDIS key, yes?” he asked, abruptly, “For our TARDIS, I mean.” He pulled his own out of his pocket and looked at her expectantly. Berating herself for flushing, she reached for the delicate chain that still hung around her neck. “You’re blushing,” the Doctor said as he reached for the key she had kept close to her heart ever since they had originally parted, “you’ll want to get that under control, it’s very distracting.” He scampered away and Clara paused for a moment, completely lost, before following him as he crouched down over the ancient Gallifreyan symbols which were etched into the floor. He laid his key on one symbol, hers on another.

“Doctor, please,” she said, crouching down next to him and placing a hand on his knee to steady herself. “You’re acting like you have a plan. Do you have a plan?”

He suddenly grinned at her, just when she thought she couldn’t be any more bewildered. “I think even the Valeyard underestimated what the energy he was collecting was capable of,” he said, taking her hand and encouraging her back up to her feet, shuffling them a few steps away from the faint inscriptions. “That’s why the rifts were so unstable. He almost lost control of the whole thing, it’s why it was so important he got the Key back.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s used that energy for destruction, there’s no denying it. And we’ve not exactly helped the situation, all this talk of the Hybrid has had us second-guessing ourselves, running scared when maybe we should have stood our ground. Well, I was terrified by it, at least. Always have been.”

“Fear is a superpower,” Clara said firmly, wanting to reassure him somehow, needing to reassure them both. The Doctor looked at her sharply as he remembered kind fingers threading through his hair in the dark and quiet of his childhood refuge. He opened his mouth to respond but a noise interrupted him before he could speak. For once, it was the most welcome noise either of them had ever heard. On the ground, their TARDIS keys had begun to glow bright gold, a thin thread of light binding the two together and feeding back into each other. The wheezing and grinding noise filling the air was unmistakable.

“No!” Clara looked at the Doctor and saw the small smile on his face. “How?”

“The universes are overlapping. She doesn’t have to tear through the walls anymore, it’s more like slipping through the cracks.” The TARDIS gradually materialised until she was stood solidly in front of them, blue, battered and beautiful, as though she had never been away. “The thing is, Clara,” the Doctor said as he stepped forward to run his hands over his beloved ship, “we all assumed the Hybrid was destructive, that’s what the prophecy told us. The Time Lords thought it was made of two warrior races; it set Rassilon on his path, maybe even led to him striking a deal with the Valeyard to begin with, he feared it so much. And it is powerful: the power the Valeyard wields is devastating, but only because of _he_ wields it. Think back: what happened when you tried to take the box containing the Chronon radiation on Eta Rho?”

“Erm, my hands just kind of...couldn’t grab it.”

“That happened to me on the Last Planet too, and then again on Eta Rho, the energy from it couldn’t hurt you, it never could have,” the Doctor confirmed as he bent down to pick up their keys. Carefully, he slipped the chain bearing hers back over her head, even tucked it into her top for her before leaning in and fiercely pressing a kiss against her forehead like his former self would have, like his current form had always resisted doing. Turning, he used his key to unlock the door and ushered them both inside.

“So, Clara Oswald, a box containing an unstable, powerful energy taken from us that we can’t touch but the Valeyard can,” he paused as the lights in the console room flickered back on and gestured at her with his hand, “take it away…”

Clara paced slowly towards him as they made their way around the console. She frowned as her mind raced, trying to catch up with whatever conclusions her genius Time Lord had already made. “He did something to the box. Like a misdirection filter, but for touch? He doesn’t want us to get our hands on it. Why?” She looked up at him as he leaned back against the railing and folded his arms across his chest, watching her.

“You tell me.” he arched an eyebrow at her.

“Because...he doesn’t want us to get our hands on it, literally. Because...the energy was created by us. It’s ours. But we never created it to destroy anything, not really!” She exclaimed, catching on. “We didn’t always get it right but we were trying to do good. The energy comes from the lives we’ve saved as much as it does from whatever we had to blow up or destroy or let burn to save the day,” Clara came to a halt just in front of him, her expression clearing as hopeful brown eyes met piercing blue. “...In the Valeyard’s hands, that energy is destructive because he wanted to tear the universe to pieces and rebuild it for himself. But in _our_ hands…”

The Doctor nodded, “The very energy that has been used to tear apart the fabric of time can be used to heal it. What was in that box of his isn’t inherently bad, just powerful and in the wrong hands. Tale as old as time.” He leaned into her, eyes shining, “We can fix it, Clara. We can bring back Anahson, Ashildr, we can even bring back Missy, although I’m not entirely sure she deserves it,” the TARDIS made a grumbling noise which Clara took to be wholehearted agreement.

“Isn’t it too late?” she asked, as the Doctor pushed away from the railing, practically bounded over to the console and began to flip the first lever of the sequence he wanted to enter. She put a hand on his arm and stilled him, “Wait! What about tidal waves? We can’t rewrite time like this, can we? There are rules, remember?”

“Some situations require a tidal wave, Clara,” he said, eyes gleaming dangerously. She took a step back, unsure. “This was never supposed to happen. It isn’t a fixed point in time because there _is_ no time left to record it, not anymore. Everything that once was is gone, just like the prophecy foretold.”

“But if we go back and we change the sequence of events then we’ll never have come here to be able to change the sequence of events in the first place,” she pointed out, “that’s what you told me when I wanted to save Danny.” The Doctor finally moved his hand from the console and turned to face her, so close their height difference seemed almost exaggerated. He looked down at her, bursting with pride. She was still going strong. Still matching him. Still his equal, despite everything that had happened to them today, despite everything they had lost.

“Clara, have I told you recently how amazing you are?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever told me how amazing I am.”

“Well, I’m an idiot.”

“I’m not disagreeing. You haven’t answered my question.”

The Doctor held his hands up and wriggled his fingers dramatically. “Reality bubble.”

“Okay, you say that like it explains everything.” Clara tilted her head towards him as she fought off a smile. His hyper enthusiasm was infectious. Was there really a way to put this all back the way it should be?

“It does. It’s not my fault that you -”

“If you’re about to insult me I would like to remind you that we’re currently the only two beings in existence and you probably don’t want to piss me off.”

The Doctor moved swiftly around the console. He typed in the coordinates on the keypad, making sure to be extra careful - it wouldn’t do to have one of his usually delightfully charming slipups on this particular occasion. “The reality bubble does what its name implies. It houses reality in a bubble. This moment, us deciding to go back, it’s safe in here. Outside of time, maintained by the bubble, powered by what you told me in the Cloisters.” He paused, thinking, “So, we can go back and change time but the moment _now_ , when we decide to do it, is protected from any changes we make.”

As he reached the final command, running through what they would need to adjust to make this work, the careful, minute tweaks to the narrative... he suddenly had a thought and it stopped him dead. _Oh_ . _Of course. Of course it couldn’t be that simple._ Nothing ever was. His face fell.

“What’s wrong?” Clara noticed his abrupt change of mood instantly, was there at his side and her proximity was all at once too much for him. He stalked away, collapsed into the nearest flight seat and put his head in his hands. He should have known she would follow him, crouch down in front of him, eyes inflating with worry. “Tell me,” she said, “Doctor, you’re scaring me. You said we could do this. What is it? What’s happened in that head of yours?” Clara gently took his hand and pulled it away from his face, forcing him to look at her.

“I said the Valeyard didn’t know about the reality bubble,” he said, slowly, “that this is the last place he would want us to be. I think maybe I was wrong about that.”

“Okay…”

“Not okay, Clara,” the Doctor gave a harsh laugh, “he knows me a little too well.”

“I don’t -”

“He’s taken my regenerations. I have a finite lifespan now; just one life to live,” he took a deep breath, “and you. _You_. The Raven is gone, your timestream has restarted. You’re alive.” He looked around the console room, anywhere but at her, “And now we’ve got the TARDIS back.”

“Doctor, no…” Clara pushed away from him slightly as the terrible, dawning realisation trickled down her spine. The Doctor looked towards her, his emotions stripped bare, laid out for her to see.

“He’s given me everything I wanted.”

“Don’t say that,” she pleaded.

“If we go back and we somehow manage to fix everything, he won’t take my regenerations, the Shade won’t be destroyed. We’ll lose each other all over again, one way or another.” Clara shook her head, refusing to hear what he was saying.

“It doesn’t matter. It _can’t_ matter,” she went back to him, slipped her hand up to his cheek to make him listen, “We’re not the same people we were when you brought me back, we’ve grown stronger. If we made the right decision even back then, we can make the right decision now.”

“I know,” he gave a small, unbearably sad shrug, “but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.” Clara blew out a long sigh of relief as she relaxed, briefly resting her head on his knee, exhausted.

“God, I thought -” she broke away from her sentence as he gently threaded his fingers through her hair. She looked back up at him.

“That I’d be tempted?” he gave her a slightly damp smile, “Oh, I am. Clara, I wish…” the Doctor paused, tried to put it into words she would understand, “It’s not that I love you any less - just the opposite, in fact -” he frowned, thinking back to Darillium and how the unconscious recollection of Clara had helped him give River the ending she deserved, the ending they both deserved, “it’s just I think I understand it better now, perhaps. What that promise means; what it has to mean, if we want it to mean anything at all.”

Clara couldn’t stop the tears that escaped her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. Basically, she was a mess. She wiped her hand furiously across her face, trying not to focus on the fact that he’d said it, in plain English, to her, for her. She pushed herself up and away from him, pulling his trailing hand with her.

“Right then,” she cleared her throat as he moved to stand next to her. Unable to resist, she pulled him into a tight hug, her arms flinging themselves around his shoulders. He wrapped his own around her waist and they held each other tightly, his face buried against her neck. The TARDIS hummed gently around them, patiently waiting. Eventually, they broke apart and walked over to the lever that would complete the sequence and take them away from the reality bubble. As one, they grabbed the handle. With a shared nod, they yanked the lever downwards and stepped back to watch the familiar spin of the time rotors up above them. Within seconds, they slowed to a stop and silence echoed through vast reaches of the time machine.

“I might not be able to give you everything you deserve,” the Doctor said, unexpectedly, as they made their way towards the doors. She stopped to look at him. “We may never have those cocktails with Moses - _ooh!_ \- and I really wanted to take you to the Galactic Quadricycle Championships on Eboracum, you’d love that... but there is one thing that this idiot Time Lord can do for you, Clara Oswald, the last, most impossible human in existence…” He swung the TARDIS door open and held it for her as she stuck her head out, looking around cautiously.

Dark clouds loomed, rain sheeted down all around them and, as she surveyed the scene, a flash of lightning forked across the sky followed immediately after by ominous thunder that rumbled directly overhead.

“If this turns out to be Skegness Butlins, 1976…” she tried to joke, although it fell a little flat. He gave her that familiar small, tight smile again as the enormity of what they were about to try and do sank in. Clara looked up at the Doctor’s now serious expression, cast into shadow.

“This is all I can give you, Clara,” he said, “just this. We’re going to have to tread so very, very carefully…” He gestured over to the right, encouraging her to stick her head out of the TARDIS further and take a look. A little way away from where they had landed, she could vaguely make out the outlines of five people stood at the top of a hill. One of the figures put an umbrella up over their head with a flourish. Clara held her breath. She had guessed what they might do, but seeing right in front of them it made it real. She felt the Doctor nod next to her. He leaned in and spoke to her in a low voice.

“This is all I can give to you, Clara. This is everything I’ve got,” his hand wrapped warmly around hers, seeking comfort. She gave him a squeeze and felt him return it as he took a final, deep breath: “...This is yesterday.”

* * *

 

 


	13. This is Yesterday: Part I

 

_‘I stare at the sky,_

_And it leaves me blind._

_I close my eyes_

_And this is yesterday.’_

__

This is Yesterday - Manic Street Preachers

* * *

 

The universe was reeling, that was the only way to put it. It was that special kind of inertial motion which coincides with a sudden, unexpected loss. It was internal and swooping, typified by outward stillness belying the chaos underneath. The Doctor shouldn’t technically have been able to feel it, stood as they were at a point in time before the looming end of everything - as far back as he had dared take them - and yet there was an almost metallic tang of panic in the storm strewn wind, reminding him resolutely that this was their last resort. He knew it, Clara knew it and the universe itself seemed abundantly aware.

Clara unplugged his sonic screwdriver and her sunglasses from the TARDIS console and gave the ancient time machine a fond pat as the Doctor moved away from the open door and paced around the central column until he was stood next to her.

“All charged,” she said, passing him his screwdriver as she shoved her sunglasses into the breast pocket of her top, taking care to make sure the arm was tightly folded against the material; it wouldn’t do to lose them at this stage. Studiously, she avoided his gaze as he returned his screwdriver to his inside pocket. Their plan was in place and it was like a switch had been flipped: Clara was all business. However he could tell something was bothering her so he kept watching as she rooted through the small satchel she’d found slung over the flight seat, triple-checking its contents. He had no idea if the bag was Anahson’s or whether the TARDIS had simply decided they needed it and fabricated it there, but Clara was making the most of it and packing for them like they were going on a camping trip rather than a dangerous mission crossing their own timelines. She shoved the vortex manipulator back inside and gave another soft sigh. He stayed where he was, waiting.

“Where’s the watch?” she asked, looking around for the one thing she didn’t seem to have meticulously catalogued. He pointed to the flight seat behind her where the silver invisibility watch that he was fairly certain - probably, perhaps - still worked had been set aside. Clara held it in her hand for a moment, distracted. He wondered if she was remembering Danny Pink, who had been the last person to make use of it. After their run in with the Skovox Blitzer, the Doctor had buried the timepiece in a drawer and largely forgotten about it and how she had tried to use it to prove to her boyfriend that there was nothing between them. Clara bit her lip and transferred the watch into the bag with everything else. The quiet lingered, as comfortably as it could.

“Can you feel that?” she eventually asked, standing upright and pulling the strap of the bag over her shoulder before finally turning to face him. Her skin was paler than usual, even in the warm light of the quiet console room and a flare of worry rose within him.

“Feel what?”

“I don’t really know,” she shrugged, moving her shoulders uncomfortably like she was trying to shake off something crawling its way across her skin, “I don’t know if it’s because I’m not looped anymore or if it’s -”

“Is it a prickling sensation?” The Doctor moved a little closer to her, tilting his head towards hers as his gaze roved across her features. He extended his arm and his middle finger until it pressed against the back of her neck. “Just here?”

“Yes!” She turned her head to look at him with something resembling relief. “You too?”

“All over.”

“Oh. Okay, good,” she took a little step away from him and he let his hand drop back to his side. She paused and the Doctor hid a smile. Clara always had been ridiculously astute. “Hang on. You can feel it all over?” He nodded. “But mine is just on the back of my neck,” she looked at him, “like, really specifically at the back of my neck.”

“It’s because there are two sets of us on this planet,” he said in a quiet voice, “and time is under enough strain as it is. We’re here in two states and everything is confused. It’s like a phantom limb, we can feel more keenly what’s missing. My regenerations, your chronolock.”

Her hand drifted up to the back of her neck, “...Is it there? It feels like there’s something there.”

He knew the tattoo wasn’t likely to have returned but he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to brush his hand across the softness of her skin, under the guise of moving her hair out of the way. They didn’t have time for this, he reminded himself harshly. There again, another, quieter, sadder voice in his head noted, this was the only time they had.

“No,” he said, offering her a reassuring squeeze of her shoulders, “but it’s a good barometer. The closer we get to fixing time, the stronger the sensation will get. Keep an eye on it, it will let us know if we’re going off track.”

“That’s weird,” she frowned, “but I suppose a sixth sense wouldn’t go amiss right now.”

“Technically, it’s still one of the five,” he smirked and walked the two steps to the console.

“Oh, shush. You know what I mean.”

“Wait until we merge with our past selves once the timeline corrects itself, that will feel really freaky.”

“‘Freaky’? Did you just use the word ‘freaky’?” She smiled up at him and he couldn’t help but return the gesture. “You actually are just an old hippy, aren’t you?”

“Clara, I don’t think I’ve ever pretended to be anything else,” he completed inputting the commands on the TARDIS console to give him manual control and the engine noise increased from a dull murmur to a reluctant drone. They had watched the other versions of themselves, Missy, Anahson and Ashildr run down the hill and into the forest and knew the small, bedraggled party would take some time before they reached the foot of the pyramid. Thankfully, the TARDIS seemed willing to allow them to travel through space, if not time, now they were back in a slightly more stable, rule dependent, setting. They would be able to be hidden and in place at the Valeyard’s temple of doom - Clara had laughed at that term for some reason - before their past selves would arrive to spring the first trap.

With a gentle lurch, the TARDIS lifted from the ground and he directed it upwards and to the north east, heading towards the pyramid. Clara reached over and pulled the nearest monitor round to face her.

“You’re too low,” she warned, watching as the altitude readings dipped.

“I think I know how to fly my own…” There was a slight stutter in the engine as he clipped something with the bottom of the TARDIS. A broken tree branch skidded through the still open door and stopped a few feet onto the entrance galley. Two sets of eyebrows skyrocketed.

“You were saying?”

“I meant to do that.”

Clara pulled a face at him and then looked down suddenly, confused.

“What is it?” he asked, adjusting the TARDIS’ elevation, taking them up into the thick layer of cloud cover and hoping the storm was loud enough to block out the engine noise.

“Before, when we were walking through the forest - the first time around - I heard something, I remember hearing something in the trees above us, rustling the branches. At the time, I thought it was the Shade following us but it couldn’t have been, could it? Not if the Raven was still on my wrist.”

“Ah,” the Doctor said, recognising the look on her face as her eyes glazed over slightly, “that will have been us just then.”

“...This whole thing is going to give me a headache, isn’t it?” She squinted up at him.

“If it only gives you a headache, I’ll consider that a roaring success,” his tone turned serious as he watched the monitor and saw the pyramid appear out of the mists ahead of them. He nodded to her gravely and could tell by the sudden clench of her jaw that she was ready to face whatever lay ahead. When it was just the two of them it was all too easy to forget what was at stake, to lose a bit of the focus that saving the universe, six universes no less, should ordinarily command. That, he supposed, was a very large part of the problem they presented. He pulled the lever that would encourage the TARDIS to descend just a short distance away from the pyramid, out of sight amongst a thicket of trees. Clara stuck her head out of the door and guided him through the last few feet in what he considered to be a wholly unnecessary gesture. Like landing a time machine is the same as reversing into a car-parking space, he huffed to himself.

“We’re down,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him as he adjusted his suit jacket and made his way across to the door to stand with her.

“Ready?” He felt the absurd need to offer his arm to her as though they were stepping out into a space restaurant or a space concert or a swanky space train. With a wry grin, she accepted the gesture for what it was and threaded her arm through his.

“Don’t forget where we parked, darling,” she joked as they stepped out of the TARDIS and began to walk towards where their past awaited.

* * *

The pyramid rose with something resembling foreboding inevitability out of the clearing ahead of them. The forest encroached on all sides and the vast structure towered above them, dwarfing even the tallest old growth trees. Anahson quickly realised they were not on Earth, nor any other universe’s variation of it. Lingering on the outskirts of the group, she took in the view as they all gathered around the base, trying to assess their next steps. With a weary sigh, Anahson pulled her hood down from where it was all but plastered to her scalp, pressing coldly against her rear face and making her feel even more uncomfortable than she already did, what with a bored and dangerous Time Lady idly toying with the edges of her consciousness just to prove she could.

The source of her turmoil was speaking to the Doctor and Clara as Anahson half-listened, feeling the pull of the rift reaching out to her. It was a different sensation from when she’d felt it on the Last Planet or at Bethnal Green, less painful but somehow more acute, like it was something she could hone in on or break down into its constituent parts: here a glimmer of future, there, the bitter tang of a painful past. Her neck strained as she peered upwards, trying to make sense of the dizzying sensations. Had it been like this for her mother? Had she been able to sense the past and the future with such clarity? The Janus females were said to develop their abilities more strongly as they matured but Anahson wasn’t sure how much of what she was experiencing right now was coming from herself and how much was coming from Missy’s influence. She felt a red hot flare of anger at her isolation but tried to temper it. No good could come from being angry, she had to be clever.

“Pop quiz,” the Mistress declared, gesturing with her umbrella at the patterns in the stone, “who can read what it says?” Anahson risked a glance at Ashildr as they both stepped forward. She stared at the runes and hieroglyphs as they gradually morphed into english in front of her.

“The prodigal son is lost forever,” she began, before stepping back to allow the others their turn at reciting the disappointingly familiar lines of the Valeyard’s personal premonition of his own carefully orchestrated apocalypse. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Doctor look at her sharply, as though he was surprised she was able to read what was etched into the stone. She tried to not feel insulted. Why wouldn’t the TARDIS’ translation work for her too? She hadn’t travelled as much as the others but she had been living in the time machine for the better part of a year.

“He wants his key back,” the Doctor had moved to stand by the doorway and Anahson got a sinking feeling that the only plan they had was walking straight into the belly of the beast. “Doesn’t want us to get to Eta Rho with it first, which means that’s absolutely what we need to do...” Anahson tried to see past him and into the darkness beyond.

“So what’s next?” she asked, although she already knew the answer, could sense it shimmering above them. “Because the rift is up there…”

Before she had time to voice any objection, she felt Missy urging her onwards and found herself involuntarily pushing her way through to lead everyone into the narrow opening and down into the pyramid itself as the Time Lady prattled on about tactics and Sontarans. Testing a growing theory, she tried to give the Doctor a clue about was happening. Whenever the Missy was physically compelling her to do something, it seemed to take more of her effort and her grip on Anahson’s vocal chords seemed to slip, albeit minutely. Unfortunately, it hadn’t yet happened to the point where she could scream for help but she could say just enough, just _out of character_ enough to hopefully arouse the suspicions of her Time Lord friend. Either that, or he would start to think she was an unspeakable brat and would ditch her at the first possible opportunity. That scenario didn’t really bear thinking about.

“Okay,” she said, peering into the dark, “let’s go. No point hanging around here talking about it until the universe disintegrates around us.”

With careful steps, Anahson began to make her way down the steeply sloping tunnel, feeling her way with the thin, worn soles of her sneakers as the uneven floor vanished into the black. Tentatively, she tested how much of her ability Missy was going to allow her to use and reached forward with her front face, assessing the passageway ahead. Anahson blinked. _Odd_. Streaking ahead of her was a thread of golden light, but it wasn’t her front face sensing it. Her rear face had animated of its own accord and she hoped to goodness that Missy was too preoccupied to notice it. Someone had passed down into the pyramid in the recent past, no more than an hour or two ahead of them. The Valeyard? Anahson breathed out through her nose and focused. The golden thread seemed familiar somehow, she had seen it somewhere before…

It was a bit like tuning an old radio, she realised, as she reached with her mind into the past and encouraged the image to reconstitute itself into a form in front of her far more efficiently than it had ever done before. A little bit of tweaking, find the right frequency and the signal became clear. The two figures who had entered the pyramid before them were not entirely defined but it was the very messiness of the vision which made them so instantly recognisable. The taller of the two was more of a static haze, incomprehensible past and future because there was so very much of both: the Doctor. Next to him, leading the way, was the much sharper image of Clara Oswald. Anahson almost jarred to a halt but a push from Missy propelled her forwards. There was something different about Clara’s timeline. Back on the Shadow Proclamation, when she had noticed the tendrils of the human’s connection to the Doctor floating and wandering, Clara’s timeline had always been truncated, cut off at the point of her death and looping impossibly around a single locus. Not any more. It was active again, stretching tantalisingly out in front of her.

They had reached the end of the corridor and Anahson had no idea what to do. Clara Oswald was alive. She and the Doctor were in the pyramid already, had arrived before them but, and Anahson was almost tempted to check behind her even though she knew it was a ridiculous notion, they were also just entering the pyramid for the first time with her at this very second. She could even hear them joking about in that inappropriate way they had. So how was that even possible?

 _Time travel_.

Anahson hesitated. The ability to see the future and the past were gifts not to be taken lightly, her mother had always told her. It was a responsibility that those who had enslaved their kind had never respected. The weight of it draped itself heavily across Anahson’s shoulders like an old, familiar blanket. If she said anything, she ran the risk of changing how the Doctor and Clara in particular responded to events as they unfolded which might - she blinked in the darkness - cause whatever had pulled Clara from her time loop in the first place to not happen...which would mean she wouldn’t be witnessing it now in order to tell them about it in the first place. A paradox, all ready and able to add to the devastation the Valeyard was already causing. So, now she had to determine what to do in order to hide what she knew whilst at the same time using her knowledge of the future in the way the Doctor had originally wanted. Somehow, she had to find a way to differentiate between the two, decide when to take action and when to let events unfold. And that was a hard enough task even without Missy...

She was almost grateful when the eerie green light appeared ahead of them. “There’s a light up ahead, to the right,” she called over her shoulder. There was no other option but to follow it and, with her thoughts distracted, it was only when she heard the commotion behind her that Anahson realised Clara and Ashildr hadn’t made it through with them.

“Talk about jinxing yourself,” Missy was circling around the Doctor, practically crowing her appreciation at his dismay. “You’re pathetic! It’s got to be two feet thick, she’s not going to feel you pining through the bricks.”

Anahson abruptly turned away from where the Doctor was stood, somberly pressing his palms against the wall that had broken their group apart. Watching him felt like encroaching on a private moment and she wished Missy would stop taunting him but was powerless to intervene.

She sensed movement at the other side of the huge atrium they had found themselves in. She looked up, across to the far wall and a towering, stone staircase that led to a torch-lined landing and a large wooden door. In front of the door, Clara Oswald was stood, staring down at them. Anahson must have jerked with the shock because, as she squinted to make sure this Clara was solid and real, not a vision, the human held up a finger to her lips. Anahson nodded slightly: message understood - don’t tell the others. Clara pointed to the door and inclined her head towards it before quickly pulling it open and slipping out of view.

“How are you doing?” the Doctor’s softly spoken question almost made her jump but she managed to hide her uneasiness well. “Think you can help to guide us through this place?” Anahson wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. What if the future/past/whatever version of Clara was part of the Valeyard’s trap? There again, if Anahson was the Valeyard, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to have more than one version of Clara Oswald knocking around, even if her presence was some kind of projection. There was just something about the Doctor’s closest friend that defied every rule Anahson had ever understood and her instincts told her that if Clara was trying to guide her she had to follow.

“I know,” the Doctor said suddenly, making Anahson flush with worry that she had already given the game away. His hand was on her shoulder and she looked up at him guiltily before she felt the now familiar flare in her temple as Missy exerted her influence to stop any response Anahson was about to give. “You won’t suffer this for much longer, I promise.”

Relief flooded through every synapse Anahson possessed. _He knew_. He had noticed. He knew her mind wasn’t her own and, she ardently hoped, he would be able to do something to help her. She felt the unexpected need to sob with gratitude but managed to carefully mask the rush of joy that shot through her.

“Anything?” he asked more loudly as Missy hovered closer, gesturing towards the space in front of them. She turned her attention to the immediate future, her gaze flicking of its own volition up to the room Clara had entered. Anahson froze as she was instantly assailed by the image of the ground falling away beneath their feet, bricks crumbling and disappearing into an expanding void beneath them as they fell and were swallowed whole.

“We’re going to want to run across,” she heard herself shout, urgently, “and we’re gonna want to run...now!”

* * *

 

“Doctor,” the voice came a little too loudly across his earpiece and he jumped, “Doctor, come in.”

“Clara, you do realise I can hear you if you speak at normal volume, don’t you?” He hissed. “I almost fell down the stairs!”

“I am speaking at normal volume,” came the slightly disgruntled response, “you’ve probably just got the receiver at the highest setting.”

“No, I haven’t -” because she couldn’t see him, he pulled his earpiece out of his ear and double-checked. He winced. She was right, of course. He adjusted the volume and popped it back in. To his surprise, the other end was quiet.

“Clara?” Carefully, he peered down over the edge of the spiral staircase, listening to the muffled footsteps that indicated the progress of the past versions of Ashildr and Clara making their way up. He was several levels above them, making sure he stayed out of sight.

“I was waiting for you to put it back in,” Clara responded in his ear, and he could tell she was smiling. “Anyway, you were right, Anahson saw me but didn’t seem surprised so I think she knows the score. They’re just racing across the ground level now. I had a peek out when everything started shaking. Pretty hairy.”

“Yes,” the Doctor ran a hand across his face as he leaned back against the crumbling sandstone wall, remembering their frantic race and how, at this precise moment, Missy would be making Anahson steal the Key of Rassilon from his pocket and causing a whole host of problems further down the line. “Meanwhile,” he said, “you two are making very slow progress up this deserted staircase that’s significantly not falling into an abyss. You’ve even had time to stop for a chat.”

“We’re arguing,” Clara corrected.

“Whatever for?”

“That’s between me and Ashildr,” she responded tartly.

“Well, whatever it is, you can pick up from where you left off once we’ve saved the universe.”

“When you put it like that, it does seem like less of a priority.”

“Are you sure this will work? That she’ll, you’ll, follow the instructions?” He turned the vortex manipulator over in his hands as he trotted down a flight of stairs, making sure to stay pressed close to the wall.

“That’s what the note’s for,” Clara said, her voice suddenly quietening, “I’ll trust your handwriting. Don’t worry.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Look, I think you’re almost here. I’ve got to go…”

“Round to the right,” he reminded her, “we don’t get any further in and the Overseers won’t attack you if Anahson doesn’t know you’re in there. Remember, setting 521 coupled with 863...” Thunder started to rumble off in the distance and the Doctor instantly recognised it as the weapons forges of the Mire. From what Clara had told him, she and Ashildr would be approaching the level he was at and the door that would lead them through to the Diner TARDIS before too much longer.

“Got it. And Doctor?” He straightened up after carefully placing the vortex manipulator on the ground on top of the note Clara had instructed him to write. He assessed its position: they wouldn’t be able to miss it.

“Yes?” He paused, his hand on the door handle as he listened to her breathe in his ear, trying to be calm and quiet so as not to attract any unwanted attention. He imagined her creeping along the Gremshall mine, only the blue glimmer of the embedded mineral to guide her.

“Stay safe,” Clara’s voice sounded a bit strangled, like she was holding something back. “You’re a little more breakable now.”

“You too,” he whispered as he unconsciously clenched his hand into a fist, the metal of the door handle digging into his palm. There was no response and he let out a gentle sigh. They had to be separated for this to work and, if anything, it was a good thing this was the tactic the Valeyard had opted for; two versions of themselves in such close quarters and the timeline would attempt to reassert itself before they were ready, one version or other blinking out of time with little choice as to when. This way, they could tweak the narrative: him with the past version of Ashildr, Clara with the past version of Anahson and get everything back to the way it was supposed to be. Save their friends, save the universe. Same old, same old. He just hoped, and it seemed to be the case so far, that the Valeyard was so distracted maintaining the two data slices and lording it over the past version of himself that their anomalous appearances in the timeline wouldn’t be detected until it was too late.

With a shake of his head, he was about to enter the room and make his way to the Diner TARDIS as planned when he heard Clara’s voice float up the stairs towards him. Somehow, he had automatically tuned in to what she was saying even through the ominous rumbling of the thunder that had begun to fill the air. She and Ashildr were drawing closer and he really had to get out of there but his curiosity gave him pause.

“Insurance policy. Negotiations. Contracts,” she sounded upset, “I wonder sometimes if you have completely forgotten what it means to be human, Ashildr.” He couldn’t make out Ashildr’s response but he heard their footsteps falter for a second. It was a good job they had stopped, any further and the past version of Clara would have been able to see him. He quietly opened the door and slipped inside. However, he stopped just shy of closing it fully. He swallowed guiltily. Clara had told him her argument with Ashildr was private and he knew he should respect that but...well, he’d never been one for minding his own business.

“...I’m furious with you,” Clara was saying. He cringed on Ashildr’s behalf, having been on the receiving end of that breezy, terrifying tone himself on a number of occasions. Clara took a deep breath: “And with myself... for daring to hope there’d be a way around it. That maybe the Doctor and I could somehow earn a future together by fixing this sorry mess.”

And that, the Doctor thought to himself angrily as he coaxed the door silently shut and took a moment to rest his forehead against the cool wood, is why you don’t listen in on private conversations.

A future. She wanted a future with him.

He pushed away from the door and strode over to where the Diner waited, standing out starkly against the glaring white of the room the Valeyard was using to host his little surprise for Ashildr. A future. The one thing they couldn’t have and there she was, still hoping for it in that quirk which made humans such a wonderful species - they didn’t give up, even when the odds were universally stacked against them. Dangerous thoughts and questions flickered tantalisingly across the Doctor’s mind but he did his best to suppress them. They couldn’t be selfish, couldn’t even entertain such notions if they wanted to fix the mess the Valeyard had created.

He entered the TARDIS, leaving the door ajar as Clara had instructed. With a determined grimace, he stalked towards the central console and immediately crawled underneath it, pulling his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket with a flourish. He located the panel which hid the tangled mess of wires constituting the time machine’s fail-safe module and, with a muttered grumble and a deepening frown, stuck his tongue thoughtfully between his lips and went to work.

* * *

  
They stared at the floor with understandable suspicion. Clara crouched and laid her hand on the vortex manipulator as though she could sense any ill-intent by touch alone. The small note underneath was in a familiar, messy scrawl and she picked it up, turning it over to see if anything was written on the reverse. She looked up at Ashildr and shrugged.

“It’s from the Doctor -” she held the piece of paper between two fingers and passed it up to Ashildr who made a face of disbelief - “says you need to put this on before we go any further.”

“Like we’re going to fall for that.”

“It’s his handwriting. Believe me, no one could fake that horror show,” Clara stood up and twirled the vortex manipulator around, examining it. “I think this is Missy’s, the one she had when we picked her up on Skaro.” She gazed around them, biting her lip. “But why isn’t he here, if he knows where we are?”

“You know who else probably knows where we are? The Valeyard.” Ashildr shifted nervously from one foot to the other as the rumbling filling the air grew louder.

“I don’t know,” Clara thought out loud, “I’m not sure he’d try to straight up trick us like this...it’s too crass for him. The Valeyard’s all about intricate traps. This is a bit obvious.”

“We’re stood in the middle of a whopping great big pyramid, Clara. Subtlety has basically evaporated at this point.” For a moment the women stood just looking at each other, silently deliberating.

“Put it on,” Clara eventually said, “it can’t go anywhere without you activating it. And if the Doctor left it for us there’s got to be a good reason why he can’t show himself, I’ve learned to not really question him on this stuff. Plus,” she smiled wryly, “you are more or less immortal so -”

Ashildr sighed and allowed Clara to fix the manipulator around her wrist. “If it transports me away into the middle of a black hole or something, let it be known that I will claw my way back to this plane of existence and hunt you down, Clara Oswald.”

“Absolutely fair enough.” Clara reached out and took a firm grip on the door handle. With a curt nod to Ashildr who was massaging the manipulator into a more comfortable position, she opened the door and guided them into the room beyond. They both paused as they took in the bright white atrium. At the opposite end of the room, incongruous and out of place as usual, stood their TARDIS, looking altogether too inviting.

“Okay,” Ashildr said nervously as they both spun around to witness the door disappear with a brief flash of light behind them, “what the hell is this?”

Abruptly, the weapons forges silenced. A charged stillness filled the air, broken only by Clara’s boot as it squeaked loudly on the marble floor. They slowly circled around each other, back to back, adopting their defensive positions.

“They’ve stopped,” Ashildr whispered, her voice somehow still echoing off the white walls, “you know what that means.”

“They’re ready to harvest,” Clara confirmed, trying to not let panic overtake her. They had outwitted the Mire before, and they had a lot more experience under their belts now. Her attention was drawn back to the TARDIS, almost as though the time machine was calling to her somehow. All of a sudden, she just knew they had to get inside the Diner, no matter what happened.

“I don’t know why I’m scared,” Ashildr admitted as the protracted silence wore on, “it’s not like they can kill us.”

“You really haven’t come across them since -”

Clara’s question was cut short as a heavy metallic thunk announced the arrival of a squadron of Mire soldiers. It occurred to her that perhaps she should try to bluff their way out of any confrontation; the Mire wouldn’t want to attack them if there was a chance they might not win, but a torrent of blaster fire rocketed towards them before she could flourish her sonic sunglasses in their direction. _Oh crap_. The intense heat of each blast made the air around them shimmer and Clara realised they had missed their chance to negotiate. Following Ashildr’s lead, Clara sprinted full pelt towards the guards, dodging the blasts on instinct, zigzagging and screwing up their ability to lock on target. They darted through the small gaps between each soldier and pushed through to the TARDIS beyond.  She spared a quick glance over her shoulder, almost grinning as the Mire slowly turned in tight circles, unable to maneuver quickly enough to track their prey.

“We’re not going to make it!” Ashildr shouted breathlessly and Clara’s eyes widened as she saw the room stretch and elongate impossibly ahead of them. The TARDIS was too far away; Ashildr was right, they’d never make it. The Mire had recovered themselves, blaster fire raining around them with ever increasing accuracy. To her left, Ashildr let out a cry and Clara darted towards her to help, her hand outstretched to pull her stumbling friend along but her fingers curled around nothing and she swore: Ashildr had vanished into thin air.

She barely had chance to register her shock when, floundering, Clara’s forward momentum catapulted her onwards and - so unexpectedly she skidded off balance - she found she had thundered straight through the doors of the TARDIS which was apparently back in its original position. She blinked, turning in wide, frantic circles as her brain tried to catch up with where she was. Smooth tiles were underfoot and the comforting muted hum of the time machine reverberated around her.

“Shut the door,” came the Doctor’s muffled voice from inside the console room and Clara automatically obeyed. She slammed the door shut, its bell tinkling merrily as she watched the Mire blasts deflect harmlessly off the glass windows of the Diner. She staggered through the door sporting the mural of Elvis and stood clinging to its frame, mouth agape. Ashildr was stood next to the Doctor at the controls and gave a slightly bewildered looking wave of greeting.

“Doctor,” Clara’s mind worked quickly, trying to piece everything together, “how did you… The vortex manipulator! You programmed it to use the energy of the Mire blasts.” She made as if to go to him but he held up a hand and some of her joy at seeing him again dissipated. They couldn’t be in the clear yet, celebratory hugs would have to wait.

“We don’t have much time,” he said, avoiding looking directly at her, “Ashildr, are you okay?”

It was the former Viking’s turn to look confused. “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” Her tone sounded a little bitter and Clara stepped in to prevent the opening of any ancient wounds.

“Doctor, what’s going on?” He looked down at the controls and activated the final button of the sequence. To her surprise, the TARDIS complied and the time rotors began to churn in the central column. She would have thought the proximity of the rift would have caused their ship to go into lockdown like the Doctor’s had in London.

“The Mire blasts can kill you,” he directed his response to Ashildr but not before his gaze had guiltily flicked up to Clara. She’d seen that look before, he was hiding something from her. “It’s the one fatal injury the chip won’t fix,” he paused as a horrible thought occurred to him. “I’m sorry, but I had to save your life one last time. I had to.”

Ashildr closed her eyes and turned away from them both and Clara knew her friend - although Clara was unspeakably pleased she was still alive - needed some time to digest what she had just been told. She had the ability to die again, had perhaps had it all along. From what Clara had learned of her friend’s complicated past, there were times when this knowledge might have been a blessing, a kindness. Every second of Ashildr’s long, long life must have been weighing down on her at that very moment. Not only that, it would throw up a lot of questions that Clara could entirely empathise with; with death a possibility again, the issues of ‘if’ and ‘when’ would become yet another burden for Ashildr to carry.

“How could you have known?” Clara felt a rush of something cold and unpleasant make its way across the skin at the back of her neck, even though she shouldn’t have been able to. “How could you have possibly known exactly what we’d need?” The time rotors ground to a halt and the Doctor ran a frustrated hand through his hair, a gesture she recognised as him stalling before he had to deliver bad news. “Doctor, please. Where are we? Why is the TARDIS even letting us travel?”

“He can’t tell you, Clara,” Ashildr spoke quietly, “because I died, didn’t I? And this -” she finally turned back to face them - “strictly speaking, this isn’t our Doctor.”

Clara looked at the Doctor, really looked at him. He slowly lifted his head and finally allowed their eyes to meet and hold.

 _Oh_.

She could tell he was struggling but it was a different kind of guilt hidden underneath his pale blue gaze than the turmoil she had seen when they’d been stood in the extraction chamber on Gallifrey. This was not a furiously selfish act to right a personal loss, it was an urgent, absolute necessity. Given their circumstances, Clara realised it was entirely likely everything had gone as wrong for them as it possibly could.

“Okay,” she said, slowly. “Don’t tell us anything we aren’t allowed to know but you’ve got to let us help you. What do you need?”

The Doctor sighed with double-edged relief, clenching and unclenching his fist nervously. “I need the vortex manipulator again,” he held out his hand as Ashildr quickly unfastened the strap and handed it over to him, “and I need you both to stay in here for a minute. Don’t follow me, no matter what.” He strode purposefully back out into the Diner, leaving Clara and Ashildr alone in the console room as the door swung shut behind him. The TARDIS grumbled uncomfortably and Clara had to force herself not to look at the frantic readings which were spooling across the monitors, warning lights flashing but no alarms sounding.

The Doctor’s voice floated in from within the Diner but she didn’t have the faintest idea who he could be speaking to. He sounded like he was complaining to someone - or _at_ someone - which seemed a far more accurate description. Who else could be out there? It was too tempting to listen in and Clara suspected that wouldn’t be the wisest decision so she quickly turned her attention to Ashildr instead. The other woman was still looking ashen, holding herself up against the console.

“You okay?” she asked, trying to reconcile the fact that, at some horrible point in some now alternative but still very real timeline, she had lost her friend. Their argument on the stairs rapidly paled into insignificance.

“Not even remotely,” Ashildr tried to smile but a minute twitch in her cheek gave her away. Clara huffed a small, sad laugh and crossed the few steps separating them so she could pull her not so immortal companion into a fierce, tight embrace.

* * *

  
Anahson painfully regained consciousness, splayed out across the rocky, uneven floor of the mine. The Overseer and his whip were nowhere to be seen but the telltale final remnants of rippling blue energy were lazily dispersing across the crystalline walls and floor. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened to him. What was more of a mystery was how Anahson hadn’t been destroyed alongside him. The answer presented itself in the form of Clara Oswald, crouched over her, scanning worriedly with her sonic sunglasses. Everything hurt. Anahson could vaguely make out the shape of the other woman in the dim light cast by the unrefined Gremshall studding the walls as her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. She let out a strangled groan and lifted her hands to the side of her head - something felt hot and painful - as gentle but firm hands supported her into an upright sitting position.

“You’re going to be okay,” Clara reassured her, tucking an errant strand of Anahson’s hair behind her ear.

“You couldn’t have stepped in a little earlier?” Anahson bit through a scratchy and painful throat. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful - being alive was definitely a positive, despite the pain - but she couldn’t help noticing they were still in the mine while the Doctor and Missy were not. She stared at where the Overseer had been stood before she’d ignited the Gremshall; there was a puddle of bright blue splashed up the wall. She swallowed against an unexpected welling of bile in her throat. It burned on its way back down.

“Sorry,” Clara sounded genuinely upset, “I saw what you had to go through. Maybe don’t try to get up straight away, yeah? Just sit for a while.” Anahson relented a little, relaxed as Clara crawled around to help support her. She jumped when she felt the human’s arm snake around her shoulder but leaned into the offered embrace after only a second’s hesitation. The two of them sat in silence for a moment as Anahson focused on her breathing. As she looked around her and began to make out more detail in the shapes surrounding them, she could feel her fear building again. The walls of the mine seemed to close in, the air surely too stale and thin to keep them alive for long. She had no idea how to get out of there and now Clara was stuck too.

“So, you’re alive then?” It seemed polite to ask, and Anahson hoped the conversation would help to take her mind off the low ceilings and the smell of burned flesh that she suspected was perhaps her own.

“For the time being,” Clara replied grimly, “won’t last though.”

“What happened? I saw you before we came through here -”

“So you’ll know why I can’t answer that question.”

“You’re from the future.”

“It sounds a lot more impressive than it is, trust me,” Clara squeezed onto her shoulder a little more tightly. “I’m not going to be able to give you the blueprints for hoverboards or anything. How are you doing?”

“I don’t think Missy is in my head anymore, so that’s something.”

“If I’d known all we needed to get rid of her influence was brutal electrocution, I’d have hooked the Doctor up to a car battery years ago,” Clara chuckled. Anahson shuffled forwards and managed to sit up by herself as Clara raised herself into a crouch. With a concerned look, she ran her fingers over the air just above where Anahson’s inhibitor had been. The fact she didn’t want to risk touching it told Anahson everything she needed to know.

“What happened?” She asked again, pressing Clara for an answer this time. Clara fiddled with something in her ear and Anahson recognised one of the earpieces they had used on the Shadow Proclamation. At this stage in their journey, her memories of being chased around the Justice Asteroid by the Judoon were almost fond.

“I was hidden around the corner,” Clara began, a little distracted as she removed the earpiece and reinserted it. “The Doctor had given me instructions not to do anything until he and Missy had gone. He’d said it would be hard to not step in but -” she broke off and Anahson was shocked to see tears welling in her eyes - “I’m so glad I got to you in time, Anahson.”

Anahson didn’t want to dwell too closely on what Clara’s response could mean but she distinctly remembered the absolute certainty she had felt when she had touched the Gremshall whip to the unrefined crystal: her own survival hadn’t really been a consideration.

“How are you here?” she asked instead. “I thought this was a matrix thing.”

“A data slice, according to the Doctor. I’ve seen one before, but bigger. He said it was tied to your fears, bleeding through from the Matrix. When you lost consciousness, the Doctor and Missy were released but I’ve just used the sonic to plug myself into the - I’ve actually no idea what it’s called. Relay? Let’s call it a relay.”

“Relay works.” Her voice scratched and Clara rummaged around for a moment before pulling something out of the satchel she was carrying. A metal flask was suddenly held up to her lips and Anahson gratefully took a gulp of water, wrapping her own trembling fingers around the cool cylinder as she made herself lift it up again under her own steam. Clara backed away a little, clearly assessing how strong Anahson was which made the younger woman wonder what kind of ordeal was still to come. She swallowed a refreshing gulp of water, paying no attention to the droplet that missed her mouth and dribbled down her chin. Once she felt suitably sated, she handed the flask back to Clara, who put it back in the bag as Anahson attempted speaking again.

“So... how do we get out? Because this place is my idea of hell.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, just tell me the plan.” Clara winced as Anahson heard a loud burst of static emanating from the earpiece. She held up a hand and, with a flick of her finger, she activated the device and spoke into the microphone that followed the line of her cheekbone.

“Yes, I’ve got her. Give me a minute, will you?” Clara rolled her eyes and Anahson could instantly tell who was on the other end of the line. “Not a full minute, then. Thirty seconds. You can give us that,” another pause, “well, it’s going to take longer the more stubborn you get.” With raised eyebrows indicating Clara had won the argument, the human turned her attention back to Anahson.

“Okay, so, the plan is that to get us out of here the Doctor is going to do a very clever, ever so slightly dangerous thing. So we’re going to have to move out of the way.” Clara rose to her feet and Anahson held out her hand to be helped up. Still a little unsteady, she allowed herself to be shuffled further into the tunnel. Once some of her strength returned to her legs, she felt Clara loosen her grip. They waited. Quietly at first and then with growing intensity, the familiar noise of the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver filled the mine. A gust of wind, an unfathomable breeze generated somehow from inside the mine, although there was no possible source, whipped grit and dust towards them and they shielded their eyes.

And then it dropped. With a regretful groan, the noise of the screwdriver whirred into silence and everything was still again. Wiping at her face, Anahson squinted towards Clara.

“Is it supposed to do that?”

“Not exactly, no,” Clara activated the earpiece in a heartbeat, “Doctor, what’s going on?”

“Hang on,” Anahson interrupted, staring into the space Clara had clearly thought they needed to back away from. She could make out a vague impression of static but only if she looked from the corner of her eye, like trying to spot the smudge of a nebula against the night sky when there was a touch too much light pollution. She looked away and back towards the blur of unreality, able to vaguely make out the faded and twisted mess of timelines that could only belong to her friend. “Tell him to stay where he is.”

“But we need to -”

“Tell him not to move.”

“Doctor... I know, I know. Listen, Anahson says stay where you are -”

Anahson could feel Clara watching her closely as she carefully took a step forward. She scrunched her eyes shut and exhaled slowly, putting her aching temple and her screaming muscles out of her mind. She focused on the sound the screwdriver had been making as it echoed around her memory. Present and yet absent at the same time, not quite able to break through. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing, but every fibre of her being was telling her that this was the way to be free. It was instinctual, ingrained. Almost without realising she was doing it, Anahson held out a hand in front of her. Her fingers outstretched, her whole arm trembled with the effort of the gesture.

She wasn’t in a mine, she told herself. Her mother and father had made sure she had escaped, risking everything to make sure she didn’t suffer as they had. Haida had taught her everything she needed to know about their sacrifice, how she came to be the first generation of her family to be raised free. That made her special. Travelling with the Doctor made her special. She refused to believe she was in a mine, despite everything her senses were telling her, because she didn't belong there. Instead, she reminded herself she was in the Valeyard’s pyramid because she had chosen to help her friends, because she was needed if they were going to save the day. Anahson realised she didn’t have to be unconscious to lift the veil of the Valeyard’s tricks, just as she didn’t have to destroy herself to escape: all she had to do was deny the reality she was being presented with, just as the Doctor had told her back when the concept of free will had seemed to be under threat.

She just had to see a future for herself the way she saw them for other people and then project a way out. She knew now - perhaps had always known, deep down - that what she needed to do was embrace her fears about who and what she was, the truths she had always felt some dark need to hide beneath a hoodie, under a pseudonym, and use them to make her strong, make her brave. The very reason she had sought refuge as a child was now what was going to help her find her way back home. _Let me be brave_ , Anahson thought fiercely as she pushed against the solidity of the mine with everything she had...

“Well,” came the Doctor’s wry voice from only a few feet away, “talk about stealing my thunder.”

As she opened her eyes, Anahson blinked against the change in light. Sandstone bricks lined the room the mine had been staged in, torches illuminating the space from their brackets on the walls. Something heavy crashed to the ground in the far corner and all three of them jumped. They span around to see the black sphere, no bigger than a basketball, splinter into fragments on the stone floor. Its red lights winked out; the data slice wouldn’t be troubling them any more.

“You did it, Anahson,” Clara grasped onto her elbow, smiling, “I have no bloody idea what you did, but whatever it was, it worked.”

“She’s a Janus,” the Doctor walked up to them and bent his head down towards her, his expression serious, “and she’s not holding back anymore.”

“I don’t know how I just did that,” Anahson stuttered, “but I think I finally understand why I could do it, if you know what I mean.”

“It was a more elegant solution than trying to short out the data slice,” the Doctor winced, looking at Clara, “it was starting to go critical. I had to stop resonating otherwise we’d have all… been lasagne.” He raised his eyebrows at Clara as though this was supposed to mean something. Anahson had no idea what he was talking about but suspected they had had yet another narrow escape. Something glinted at the floor by her feet, distracting her before she could ask any more questions. Painfully, she bent down and picked up the small metallic disk shining on the ground before folding it into her palm.

The inhibitor was cold to the touch, the tendrils that had been buried in her skull had disintegrated and now all that remained was the outer casing. She looked at it, no bigger than a fifty pence piece and all of a sudden no more terrifying than one either. Anahson straightened her back and raised her face to meet the Doctor and Clara as they stood to the side, giving her time. She shoved the defunct token into the pocket of her jeans.

Her two friends shared a proud smile that didn’t escape her notice but for once, she wasn’t embarrassed by their affection. It filled her with a warmth that overrode the stinging pain in her temple and the aching deep in her joints.

“So, what’s next?” She asked.

* * *

  
They waited until Anahson had passed into the console room before they put the next stage of their plan into action. They watched the Elvis door swing shut behind the weary Janus and then turned to each other a little reluctantly.

“Are you ready for this?” the Doctor asked, turning the vortex manipulator over in his hands carefully before handing it to her.

“I’ve got to be,” she replied, doing her best to give him a bright smile.

“Clara -” he began.

“We said we wouldn’t do this,” Clara stopped him with a gentle touch to his wrist and he stilled. “It’s got to be done, right? I’ve got to re-enter the timeline to stop you from giving up your regenerations. Which means -” she shrugged the bag off her shoulder and handed it to him- “I’ve got to arrive unexpectedly on the top of the pyramid right about now. Did you set the coordinates?”

“Yes, it should take you straight there. There’s just enough charge left from the Mire weapons. One trip.”

“Excellent. Wouldn’t do to rematerialise in a wall or something.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Rematerialising in a wall? I would imagine so. But only for a very, very short amount of time.”

“Idiot, that’s not what I meant.” Clara took one look at his face and realised he was deflecting, which was probably all the answer she would ever need about what the moment of her death, an experience currently denied her, had been like to witness. She remembered the old man taken by the Shade just minutes before her all too well, just as she remembered seeing the expression on the Doctor’s frozen face as he stood helpless on Trap Street at the moment she had been extracted.

“It’s not like the Shade is going to take your life again,” he said softly, “the timeline will just return the time loop. It’ll be like it was when you walked into the extraction chamber. Disorienting, perhaps.”

“Okay, that I can handle,” she busied herself by fastening the vortex manipulator around her wrist, pointlessly making sure the strap was secured while the Doctor fiddled nervously with the bag she had handed him, twisting the handle in his hands. “The back of my neck’s tingling like mad so I assume we’re on the right track,” Clara added. The Doctor nodded, distracted. Everything that was going to have to remain unsaid if they were to manage to pull this off filled the space between them until the air was thick with it. She risked another glance up at him and found she couldn’t look away. This was it. She had to go and replace the Clara who would have, by now, been on the roof but was instead stood only a few feet away inside the TARDIS.

“It’s just a heartbeat,” she said, trying to stop the tremor from entering her voice as she watched him swallow thickly, “it doesn’t matter. At least this time I know I’m going to see you again, whether I have one or not.”

“Promise,” the Doctor said firmly, his own voice an octave deeper than usual.

“Promise.” With a watery flash of a dimple and glinting, warm brown eyes, Clara completed the sequence he had pre-programmed with a single press of the ‘execute’ button. In a streak of blue light, she was gone and the Doctor was left standing alone in the small room. He shifted the satchel from one hand to the other, not quite able to face moving for a few moments as he waited for the inevitable evidence she had replaced her earlier self in the sequence of events to make itself known. It didn’t take long.

“Doctor, Doctor!” Ashildr burst through into the Diner section of the TARDIS, out of breath as though she had run a lot further than the few metres from the console. She darted across the seating area, stopping herself at the threshold of the time machine and clinging to the door frame. “Doctor, it’s Clara -”

“I know,” he said, turning around with a sigh and flinging the bag at the surprised woman who scrambled to catch it before it fell to the floor, “she’s disappeared. Flash of golden light.” He strode back towards the TARDIS, ignoring the urge to glance back to the space his version of Clara had been stood just seconds before. He gestured for Ashildr to follow him as he pushed his way through into the console room.

“The timeline?” Ashildr frowned as she had to elongate her stride to keep up with him.

“Yes,” the Doctor huffed, not really wanting to give away too much. “It’s fine. She’ll be fine.”

“But Doctor,” it was Anahson speaking now as she approached him from the other side of the console, “what about -”

“I know,” he repeated, snapping a little before holding his hand up apologetically. “This is the way it has to be. Now gather round and pay attention because I need you two to focus. We’re not finished with the timeline just yet and I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

* * *

  
The strangest thing wasn’t the ringing in her ears, she’d had that before. Unsettling, certainly, but she could cope now she knew what to expect. Nor was it the hollow absence in her chest or the sheer exhaustion that hit her as soon as she landed on the pyramid’s roof putting her off balance. No, the strangest thing was that as the Doctor skidded on his knees to envelop her in his arms, she had the weirdest sense that he wasn’t himself. It was so peculiar, seeing this past version of him compared to the one she had just left behind. It was like they were two different people, even though she knew that was ridiculous - they had barely lived a few hours longer than the Time Lord in front of her now but, she supposed, what a few hours they had been. Maybe the significance of what had happened on Eta Rho, on Gallifrey and then in the TARDIS afterwards had made those few short hours more weighted somehow, made them longer than linear time was capable of capturing.

“Clara -” he said, looking around, “where’s Ashildr?” She tried to remember how she had reacted the first time around, had to hope that the Valeyard - stood just in front of the the rift and watching them intently - was not aware they had been able to rescue Ashildr from the influence of the data slice unharmed.

“She’s,” Clara eventually said, not sure exactly how to phrase it but deciding to opt for a lie hidden within a truth. Missy had taught her something useful, at least. “She’s in my TARDIS, we were attacked by the Mire.” She pulled away from him, finding it hard to meet his worried gaze as she sensed the guilt flood through him. As far as he was concerned, he’d just lost Anahson and now Ashildr was gone too. Discreetly, she glanced at the Raven tattoo that was now adorning her wrist once more. The Shade hadn’t been destroyed yet but, according to the Doctor, the phantom’s quantum status should mean that it was only too aware of the fate that awaited it. Clara’s logical reasoning got tied up in knots as she tried to figure out whether the Shade had known it would be destroyed the first time it had helped her but had gone along with the chain of events because it also knew she and the Doctor would be able to set everything right, or whether it was possible for a quantum being to monumentally underestimate just how far the Valeyard was willing to go.

“The Mire! The Mire are the only ones who can kill her,” Missy was exclaiming from her spot a few feet away. “Why didn’t I think of that? Of course, a species as bat-shit as the Mire wouldn’t want their medical chips to get in the way of tribal infighting-” Clara bristled at the Time Lady all over again but this time her anger was directed at the actions Missy had yet to commit. Her refusal to give the Doctor the Key of Rassilon was bewildering, even the Doctor himself hadn’t been able to decipher what his old friend was up to: surely even Missy could see sense when her own life - never mind the universe, that was always going to be a secondary concern - was under threat? So why withhold the one thing that would give them the ultimate advantage over the Valeyard? What was her agenda?

The Valeyard was reaching into the lining of his jacket pocket for the box of Chronon radiation and Clara tried to observe the box as closely as she could without attracting any undue attention from the others. She and the Doctor stood and made their way over to Missy as Clara felt a bizarre wave of dizziness pass over her; the remnants, she assumed, of the chronolock’s reintroduction making itself known. As she waited for the unusual fugue to clear, she dimly heard the Doctor and the Valeyard exchanging now all too familiar barbs.

“I suppose, Doctor, that you have determined what is inside this box by now? And yet you still believe lying to me is a good idea?”

“Concentrated Chronon radiation,” the Doctor was replying, just as she remembered. “Time energy. Strong enough to punch through the fabric of time and establish a Hexadimensional Net.” Clara eyed the silver box the Valeyard held. Whatever misdirection circuit, or whatever you wanted to call it, the Time Lord had imbued into it, they needed to figure out a way to be able to handle it themselves. Hopefully, the Doctor, Anahson and Ashildr were working on a solution to that little problem while she focused on hiding the diverging timelines and setting up the scene on Eta Rho so that it would hopefully, this time, play out in their favour. There was still so much that could go wrong and it made her uneasy.

The Valeyard was already preparing to pass through the rift and she knew time was running out. Before much longer, the timelines would merge whether the others were in place or not.

“You’re probably going to want to follow me,” the Valeyard crowed smugly from the steps leading up to the shimmering rift, “the process is nearly complete. This little rock is about to burn.” As soon as his thin, black silhouette disappeared into the rift, the sky turned crimson and Clara could not withhold a shudder. Looking up at the Doctor, his cheeks sunken in the dim light, brow cast into sharp relief, she saw his fear and his anger as he turned to accost Missy.

“Missy, give me the Key. However you’re thinking of spinning this to your own advantage, it’s not worth it.”

“Finders keepers -” Missy began to gloat, only for her grin to die on her lips as Clara surged forward and grabbed her arm, holding onto it tightly.

“Missy, for once will you just do as you are told!” The shock on the Time Lady’s face was almost worth the risk as she pushed Clara backwards violently, a snarl springing to her lips.

“How dare you lay your hands on me?” Missy roared. “I’d have a good mind to kill you for your insolence, if you weren’t already splendidly dead.”

“Enough.” The Doctor stepped forward until he was stood at Clara’s shoulder, hovering protectively. “Missy, just give it to me. You know how this will play out if you don’t.”

“Sorry, I drifted off. You were saying?” Missy’s eyes were wide and innocent as she stepped backwards through the rift and allowed the vortex to swallow her, lifting her fingers up in a mocking salute as she vanished. Clara huffed out a frustrated breath. She hadn’t expected it to work but it had been worth a shot, except now the Doctor was frowning at her, confused.

“What was all that about?”

“Come on, she was asking for it.”

“And you really thought that would work?”

“Doctor, we don’t have time to stand around discussing it. We need to work out our plan and go through so they won’t notice the delay, right?”

The Doctor tilted his head to the side, looking puzzled. “That’s exactly what I was about to say.”

“You’ve always got a plan,” Clara covered quickly, “I know how your mind works, remember?”

“However, you’d have no way of knowing that the distortion of the rift would buy us time.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her pointedly. “Well, that’s not strictly true. You’d have two possible ways of knowing and the first one I don’t like one bit. The second option isn’t filling me with confidence, either. It means something has gone horribly wrong somewhere along the line and you're trying to fix it.”

“Six minutes, thirty eight seconds,” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Please, just trust me.”

“I’ll always trust you,” he muttered, “it’s just who would know to take advantage of that that worries me.” He eyed her warily and she made a snap decision. He had to know the score, it was the only way she could be sure to get his co-operation, to make sure he didn’t just blindly follow the plan she and the other Doctor had already tried.

“You kissed me in the TARDIS wardrobe,” she blurted out, unable to hold it back. Dimly, she felt a rush of satisfaction as she saw his cheeks flush at the memory. “No one else was there, no one else knows. Heck, I think the universe would have a fit if anyone found out we managed to snatch ourselves a moment of happiness in the middle of this mess.” The Doctor’s lips twitched upwards and Clara had to school her features to hide her own smirk; Ashildr had once described them as ‘insufferable’ and she was starting to see why. “I'm not a trick. It's me, Doctor and I really, really need your help.”

“Five minutes, seven seconds,” the Doctor prompted, raising his eyebrows incrementally as he came to terms with what she was telling him. “So, what can I do for you, Clara Oswald?”

* * *

Missy was quietly impressed by how completely Eta Rho’s moon had been leached of its colour. It was a good look for the pathetic little rock. In her opinion, it was the sincerest form of pathetic fallacy that the environment now exactly matched the dry, bitter, dull personality of the Valeyard. Underfoot, the soil was a cracked husk, even the plants that dared to survive on the desolate satellite were apologetic for their existence, pitiful and brown.

She took in the work he had achieved and begrudgingly gave the old coot his dues. The rifts were unstable, certainly, but he had clearly made a great deal of headway in actually producing a Hexadimensional Net that might just - might, mind you - work, possibly even without destroying its creator in the process. She supposed that was the benefit of being privy to all the information contained in the Matrix for all those years. The only reason she was still biding her time with this tiresome charade was because the shortcut in the preparations was far too valuable to squander by showing her hand too soon. With the Key of Rassilon in her pocket, she knew she had both the Valeyard and the Doctor at a disadvantage. If she played her cards right, if she could encourage those two idiots to focus largely on each other, the power the Valeyard sought could easily be hers for the taking. By the time they realised she was playing them off against each other, it would be too late for either of them to do anything about it.

Casually, she looked over her shoulder, a small frown furrowing her brow as she thought she perceived a delay in the Doctor and his pet’s arrival through the rift. Could there be a time distortion between the top of the pyramid and here on Eta Rho? A window of opportunity for the Doctor to concoct one of his annoyingly effective last minute plans? If so, how long would it have -

No need for concern, she told herself as the Doctor and Clara emerged through the shimmering tear in space and time, hands pathetically clasped together in that sickening way they had. Not for the first time, a shudder of genuine revulsion ran through her at the sight of them. If ever there was a time for her and the Doctor to run amok, it was surely in pursuit of the Valeyard. He was the one enemy the Doctor would have no qualms about utterly annihilating, what with them being the same person and all (there was a lot of psychological mess going on there which Missy joyfully revelled in). But no, instead she had to put up with hand holding and inside jokes and mooning wide eyes. Technically, she had brought this fate on herself by setting the Doctor and the Oswald woman up in the first place but that little triviality didn’t mean she couldn’t despair at how whipped her old friend was.

The Doctor was acting more like his usual self, taking centre stage in the little web of theatrics the Valeyard had spun. Missy watched idly as the tendrils of from each rift snaked across the ground. A wave of nausea passed through her which she immediately quashed as the time leaking out of the rifts made its influence known. She could tell from the pallor of the Doctor’s skin that he was similarly affected, although the Valeyard seemed to have built up some kind of resistance or was at least more accustomed to hiding his discomfort. She pushed the dizzying sensation from the back of her mind and focused on what was happening, waiting with increasing impatience for her time to strike. She had her particle disintegrator sequestered somewhere mildly uncomfortable and was ready for action. The only question now was which one of them would try to take the Key from her first.

“A Hexadimensional Net, as I live and breathe. Look Clara, Missy,” the Doctor gestured towards her and she raised a perfect eyebrow of disdain at being included in his little song and dance as though she was some mere bystander, “he’s made himself a super weapon!” Missy rolled her eyes as the Doctor turned back to face the Valeyard. “Nothing is ever enough for you, is it?” He really was dense, that one. Did he not realise that he and the Valeyard were the same? That all the flaws he was bemoaning in his grating monologue were ones he’d perfected himself, albeit more self-righteously.

Missy would be the first to admit that she actually had no idea where the Valeyard had originally come from. His origins were tied up in lies and inextricably tangled timelines, most of which she had fabricated herself, much to her amusement. One of her former, mustachioed incarnations had announced the Valeyard the personification of the Doctor but that had largely been a stunt to mess with him and what glorious chaos and heartache it had caused! Now, however, she wondered whether she might have insight beyond even her own high opinion of herself; the Valeyard actually _had_ emerged, as she’d told the court all those years ago, from the Doctor. There had even been witnesses.

“It was only ever a theory, there’s a reason the research was abandoned.” Missy held back a yawn as the Doctor tried to reason with the impassive Valeyard. Her gaze flickered over to Clara Oswald who was being suspiciously quiet but the human didn’t seem to be doing much more than watching the Doctor as he attempted to make his alter ego see the error of his ways. Missy suppressed a flare of disappointment that the human representative of her little hybrid was being so passive and took a few careful steps over the streams of time rippling across the ground. Idly, she considered pushing Clara into the path of one of the rifts just to see the Doctor’s reaction; the eyebrow gymnastics alone would be worth it.

“Then give me the Key,” the Valeyard commanded and Missy’s ears pricked up. _So be it._ Her shoulders tensed, ready to pull the particle disintegrator out and get the party started. She calculated she could take out the Valeyard, make it to the Seventh Door and at least get it open a crack before the Doctor or the human got in her way. Ideally, she wanted the Doctor alive. The prospect of him having to navigate a universe where she called the shots was far too delicious to pass up.

“The longer it takes, the worse it gets,” the Valeyard was still bleating. “And unlike you Doctor, I don’t have anything to lose. I will burn us all if I have to and I will welcome the end with open arms -” Oh, if only she could snap his delicate little neck in two… - “The Key, Mistress. Now. I will not ask you a second time.”

“Now, now, Boneyard,” she taunted, wondering whether she should point out that this was technically already the second time he had asked, “that’s hardly the way to treat your old comrade in arms, is it?” Preparing herself, calculating the angle, the speed with which she would need to strike, she took another couple of steps forward. She was in range and couldn’t possibly miss. Briefly, she glanced over towards the Doctor and he caught her eye, his expression furiously disappointed as though he had already guessed what she was going to do. It almost made her pause when she realised he wasn’t going to stop her but she wasn’t about to fall for a double-bluff like that. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been able to gather the energy to make your pretty little box of tricks in the first place. So how about we make a deal, hmm? For old times’ sake?”

Something shifted gently against her pocket and suddenly the Doctor and his companion’s apparent disinterest made perfect sense. She’d been a fool to let their lack of attention slide.

“Oh, very clever,” she said as she quickly slapped a hand firmly against her jacket pocket. _Too late_ , Missy cursed. A swirl of black smoke rose up next to her and from within its depths she thought she spotted the dull silver glint of the Key of Rassilon just moments before the haze solidified into a Raven, made a godawful noise and, with a heavy beat of its wings which threatened to ruin the perfect placement of her tightly packed bun, disappeared again.

The Key of Rassilon was no longer in her possession and only the outraged cry of the Valeyard prevented her own mask of indifference from slipping. This, she thought, amused by her internal ability for understatement, was a setback.

* * *

Ashildr stood in the doorway of the Doctor’s TARDIS, watching the Time Lord hold his hand out to the Raven as it appeared out of thin air, hovering with quick flicks of its expansive wings. The bird dropped the Key of Rassilon into his palm and the Doctor muttered something to it too quietly for her to overhear. Beyond his thin silhouette, the crimson sky was rapidly darkening. She could make out the noise of the stone blocks crumbling from the pyramid and crashing to the ground below as everything shifted off kilter. The leaves of the trees surrounding them were rapidly turning brown and falling like morbid confetti to the shuddering ground. They didn’t have long.

“Doctor -” she called, as he lingered once the bird had vanished again, staring at the Key as though it held the secrets of the universe. And maybe it did, considering its creator, but there wasn’t time for a trip down Gallifreyan memory lane. The Diner was parked a couple of metres away from the phone box and they had to time their escape from this forsaken world as perfectly as possible, just as he had exasperatedly explained to them once Clara had vanished. As her thinly veiled concern permeated his distracted brain, the Doctor pivoted on his heel and marched with purpose back into the time machine, brushing past her as she folded her arms across her chest.

“You’ll need to pilot the Diner,” he said over his shoulder, “think you can manage the temporal forces in the rift?”

“Will it be any worse than when we travelled through from the Last Planet?” Ashildr didn’t want to admit she was nervous. Here she was, billions of years old and finding those experiences didn’t quite encompass everything she needed them to. One wrong move flying the Diner through the rift and she could end up ripping the fabric of time to pieces. She was suddenly a lot more appreciative of the responsibilities the Time Lords bore on their shoulders. Well, one Time Lord in particular.

“Considerably,” the Doctor was gesturing to a quiet Anahson for her to pass him the satchel from where it lay across her lap on the flight seat. “But you need to let the TARDIS guide you. She’ll know what to do instinctively so don’t fight her. If you try to steer her too much, she’ll get confused and that’s when it all goes wrong, usually. I’d maybe put some padding down for the landing, if you’ve time.” He pulled a silver watch out of a zipped pocket then flung the empty bag away over his shoulder. Slipping the strap of the watch over his wrist, he waggled his eyebrows excitedly, almost childlike, as he proudly waved his arm around.

“How do I look?” Ashildr rolled her eyes and was about to give an acerbic reply about how accessorising shouldn’t be a top priority given the universe was tearing to pieces all around them, when the Doctor grinned, pressed a button on the watch and promptly disappeared. Anahson sat bolt upright in her seat, her mouth dropping open.

“Okay, that is very cool,” the Janus said, standing up and cautiously walking over to where the Doctor had been stood. “Oh,” she said, pausing, “I can still kind of…” She squinted and made her way past where Ashildr was stood.

“Very clever, Doctor,” Ashildr began to say, “but don’t you think we should -”

Anahson reached out and prodded thin air sharply with an outstretched finger. The Doctor’s strangled yelp filled the console room and he suddenly reappeared, scrubbing a hand over his left eye furiously as he grimaced with pain. Anahson’s hands flew up to her mouth.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, “I can’t really make you out properly, it’s just a rough -”

“It’s fine,” the Doctor said through gritted teeth, blinking blearily, closing and opening one eye and then the other as if to test his vision. “I just wanted to make sure it still worked.”

“And show off,” Ashildr added, making her way to the door. “I’m going to fire up the Diner.” The Doctor straightened his back and pinned her down with a fierce look.

“Stay safe,” he ordered, “no heroics.”

“Clara does the heroics,” she responded, her mouth curling up into a rueful smile, “I’m just the enabler.”

She didn’t bother glancing over her shoulder as she stepped through the police box door and walked briskly over to where the Diner stood waiting for her. There was no point in long, drawn out goodbyes. They had been through enough of those already on this apocalyptic adventure of theirs and it was imperative they go into this final showdown with a clear head.

Despite her pragmatism, Ashildr still felt a hint of loneliness as she entered the empty Diner and made her way through to the console room. It didn’t feel right in there without Clara to joke with, to rely upon. With her lips pursed in a thin line, she immediately got to work punching in the coordinates the Doctor had instructed, loudly and emphatically, that she enter. As the panel before her came to life, the TARDIS brightened the lights as if the time machine was alarmed. Ashildr couldn’t blame her.

“It’s okay,” she muttered as her fingers darted expertly over the controls, not entirely sure whether she was being truthful either with herself or with her transportation, “just a quick stop off on Eta Rho and then everything goes back to normal. More or less.” Up on the monitor above her head, she saw the door of the Doctor’s TARDIS slam shut, watched as the ancient blue box dematerialised and sent a whirling dervish of dead leaves and branches flying through the air in its wake.

_Time to go._

With a final flick of her wrist as she pressed the last button of the sequence, Ashildr sent up a silent prayer to a god she had long since unmasked that for once, just for once, everything go smoothly.

Naturally, her plea was barely finished when the time machine lurched impossibly, and she automatically flung her arms up to brace her head and neck. _Oomph_. All of her breath left her body as she crashed into something hard, her eyes scrunching shut as a brief flare of pain coursed down her right hand side until the Mire chip kicked in to fix whatever had snapped or twisted or fractured. Another sickening roll and she felt herself move, daring to prise her eyelids apart and instantly letting out a strangled cry of surprise: she was on the ceiling. She was on the ceiling of the console room, it having swapped places with the floor, apparently. Or perhaps not. Maybe, she realised, as she lifted away from the ceiling, inching back down towards the console, she was floating.

That shouldn’t be possible. That was a very bad sign indeed.

Warning lights flashed from every available electronic circuit on the console as she slowly circled around it from above like a hideously unprepared astronaut. Some of the books she and Clara had collected came loose from their shelves even though Ashildr was sure they had been maglocked in place. A weighty Althurian medical tome floated perilously close to her head and she drifted a little to avoid it.

The groaning of the engines increased to the point where she was sure something in the heart of the TARDIS was about to go supernova or critical - the perils of having a vehicle and not understanding what was under the bonnet, she laughed somewhat maniacally to herself - and she tried with all her might to make her way to where the manual override controls were just tantalisingly out of reach. She tried swimming through the air but found herself floating upwards again, exasperated. A cushion idled its way into her path until she sent it spinning off, using its meagre propulsion to push herself in the right direction. Arms outstretched, as soon as her fingers skimmed the safety rail of the console she latched on, her knuckles whitening with the effort. By degrees, she pulled herself forwards, her legs waving behind her as she heaved herself slowly around. A shot of steam expelled from somewhere at the other side of the room and the lights strobed erratically.

Everything looked different as shadows she hadn’t noticed before moved and danced across her vision. Everything looked wrong. _Other_. She worried the coordinates the Doctor had given her had miscalculated the path through the rift, that she was lodged in the side of the time tunnel and the TARDIS was being split into all the possible variations of itself; at once a version comforting and familiar, the next moment, malignant and cold.

She had almost made it jarringly to the controls when the engines stuttered and died down. For a moment that could not have possibly existed according to the laws of physics Ashildr was familiar with, she was suspended in place and unable to move. It was like time had stopped all around her and only she was aware that anything was wrong. And then she plummeted down to the floor again, ending up in a crumpled heap as ‘Althurian Anatomy’ thudded to the ground next to her, narrowly and thankfully missing clocking her on the head.

She lay for a moment, winded and breathing sharply, as she made a quick mental check of all her limbs. The TARDIS seemed to have landed; the lights dimmed and the door leading to the Diner creaked apologetically open.

With concerted exertion, Ashildr pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her jacket before slowly bringing the nearest monitor around to face her. With the palm of her hand she hit the screen twice, the footage fritzing in and out of resolution. Sure enough, as the pixelisation cleared, Eta Rho unfurled across the external camera’s wide-angled lens. The moon’s drab landscape was interrupted by the circle of rifts that could be no more than one hundred metres away, the outline of the Doctor’s TARDIS was visible just beyond that. He and Anahson had made it too, she gave a sigh of relief. Ashildr frowned as she watched the streams of light dancing across the ground inside the Hexadimensional Net, searching for completion and shimmering dangerously. She pushed the sleeves of her jacket up to her elbows and stalked away from the console. She ran her fingers over the Diner  counter in an unspoken farewell as she passed through before flipping the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. With one last, lingering look around the ship she had started to think of as home, she pulled open the door and stepped out onto the dry and cracked dirt of the small moon that had unwittingly become the epicentre of this galactic struggle. She took in the electric charge in the air. Right. This was it. No more deviations, no more doubts, it was time to shut the Valeyard’s intricate weapon down, once and for all. The whole universe depended on it.

* * *

“You seem surprised, Valeyard,” the past version of the Doctor proclaimed as she and Ashildr, whose TARDIS had materialised at the opposite side of the circle to theirs, cautiously entered the arena inexplicably encircled by the hovering, impossible portals of shimmering golden light. The time leaking from the rifts sang to Anahson, discordant like an unrehearsed choir. They set her teeth on edge. Clara nodded minutely in a welcome that contained a warning: _get ready_. From the corner of her eye, she saw a faint blur make its way silently towards what could only be the Seventh Door she had heard so much about, stood in the centre of everything, all chipped paint and incongruity. For his part, the Valeyard was bristling with rage, frozen with it, the tendons in his neck sticking out, the pulse point at his temple throbbing.

“It’s almost as though you thought I would let you get away with hurting my friends. Now, you’re probably thinking that you can get the Key of Rassilon back,” the Doctor continued, his arms outstretched as he turned in what appeared to be an innocent, if grandstanding, wide circle but Anahson knew better. He was clocking where they were all stood, she smiled to herself. He was calculating where the rifts were, the exact angles, how much space there was in between them and, depending upon exactly what Clara had told him of their plan, how much time he had remaining. “You’re probably thinking you can summon the Shade back here and kill it with the Chronon radiation. And maybe you could...if the Key was still in the Shade’s possession.” The Doctor held up his hands with a mocking shrug. “But it’s not! And I haven’t the faintest idea where it is.”

“Doctor, you’re an idiot,” Missy snapped as Anahson came to a halt next to her and Clara. Ashildr circled around to where the Doctor was stood. “You were right, the Net is unstable.” Anahon was amused to hear a touch of panic in the Mistress’ voice. It would be interesting to see how she liked losing control for once. “Without access to the Matrix, there’s no way to direct the energy. You’ve just signed the death warrant of six universes-” the Time Lady ran a manicured finger across her chin thoughtfully - “not a bad evening’s work! Now tell me you’ve got an exit strategy and let’s leg it. I’ll even let you pick one of the backing singers to bring with you.” Missy conspiratorily leaned towards Clara and shielded her mouth before pantomime whispering loudly enough for the whole contingent to hear. “It’s okay, he’ll probably choose you. No promises though, your Viking friend is a tempting replacement.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Clara declared, marching forwards a few paces towards the Valeyard whose fingers had tightened on the lid of the small, silver box he carried. “What we are doing is giving you a chance, Valeyard. One more chance than you frankly deserve but that’s what we do.”

“You can’t complete the Net,” Ashildr supplied, putting her hands on her hips. “You don’t have the Key and you can’t control the rifts, they’re too far gone and you know it.”

“So either everything ends,” Anahson added, “or you hand that over of your own free will,” she indicated the box, “and let the Doctor and Clara return everything to the way it was.”

“Why do I feel like I’m in an after school bloody special?” Missy groaned.

“Valeyard, you’ve lost,” the Doctor ignored Missy and pressed on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Even you can’t be so idiotically shortsighted as to want to destroy six universes just for the sake of your own wounded ego. Let us reverse the damage you’ve done before it’s too late.”

Anahson knew it was her imagination, but Eta Rho’s sorry-looking moon seemed to hold its breath in anticipation as the Valeyard appeared to consider his options and, for the briefest fraction of a second, she thought reasoning with their enemy was actually going to work.

“And return to Gallifrey?” The Valeyard practically spat on the ground, his fingers prising open the silver box just wide enough so that the white hot energy within could experimentally sneak out of its confines. “You continue to underestimate me, Doctor. And that error will cost you everything.”

Anahson spotted a hint of movement close to the Seventh Door and tensed as the Valeyard momentarily seemed to sense something too, his gaze darting to the side. _No, keep him distracted_ , she thought as she opened her mouth to speak.

“Fair enough,” Clara got there first, defiant. “You had your chance, Valeyard. Remember that.” Behind him, the etchings surrounding the lock on the Seventh Door suddenly lit up and the door inched slowly open. The Doctor had succeeded.

And then, everything happened at once.

With an unholy roar, the rifts began to spill forth, churning towards the gap in the door. Anahson grabbed hold of Missy’s elbow and pulled her out of the way as Ashildr and Clara both charged at the Valeyard. He stumbled, narrowly avoiding being hit by the stream closest to him as it erupted deafeningly. The silver box slipped from his hands and fell, as though in slow motion, to the ground. Ashildr dove forwards, her outstretched hand snapping the lid shut as she thudded heavily into the dirt, rolling and clutching the deadly box tightly to her chest.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Missy yelled above the cacophony as, one by one, the rifts expelled all the unstable energy they had been holding back. It was the only way, Anahson told herself as she too slammed into the desiccated dirt; all that power was too dangerous to be contained but it could be redirected. She hoped beyond hope that Clara and the Doctor’s hypothesis was correct. It was too late anyway now, she squinted at the Seventh Door as it flung itself open fully, hungrily absorbing the energy it was being force fed.

 _Where was the Doctor? The timeline_...

Anahson struggled back to her feet as the streaming blasts buffeted them from all sides, not interested in the morsels in their path as they weaved towards the one thing that could complete the Net. The Seventh Door welcomed them as the Matrix undulated eagerly within its confines, dangerously close to spilling out across the threshold. On the ground to the side of the door, just out of the way of all the excitement, Anahson thought she spotted a fuzzy patch of light, unmoving and barely noticeable if she hadn’t been looking for it. Her stomach twisted with dread. Something had to have gone wrong.

“Doctor!” She cried out, causing Missy to sharply look at her.

The Valeyard was back on his feet and bearing down menacingly on Clara and Ashildr as the pair helped each other to their feet, scuttling frantically away from his imposing figure, both of them impervious to any attack he could launch but neither quite comfortable enough with that assumption to let him get too close. The seismic grumbling was threatening to become a full borne ‘quake but it wouldn’t matter, Anahson realised, nothing would matter if they couldn’t gain control of the Matrix and put everything back the way it should be. Horribly, the one person capable of doing just that was currently missing in action.

“Clara!” Anahson called out urgently, trying to get the human’s attention as that awful feeling built up inside her and threatened to overflow. The older - or younger, come to think of it - version of the Doctor stumbled across the vibrating ground as he tried to make his way over to her.

“Anahson, what’s -”

He never got to finish his question. With a sudden flare of light, he disappeared, just as Clara had in the TARDIS earlier. The timestream had corrected itself. So now what? Anahson’s hands were shaking now, she was finding it hard to think as the streams of time surged past her. She knew she was getting overwhelmed, tried to breathe around the sensations and control her response as much as she could.

“That’s it!” Missy shouted, somehow making her voice reverberate over the din as the rifts gradually began to wither, most of their energy expelled, “all of you, stand perfectly still.” Her particle disintegrator was finally, inevitably, held aloft, as steady as she was able; even the Mistress’ usually faultless sense of balance teetered precariously as the moon gave another terrified lurch. Anahson saw Clara’s head snap around from where she and Ashildr were supporting each other.

“Move and I’ll end you,” Missy swore, leaving no doubt that she would follow through. “And by ‘move’ I mean anything at all, so you’d all better find your sea legs. Put that box down, Viking.”

Reluctantly, Ashildr lay the silver box down in the soil and stepped carefully away from it, her eyes glued to the lid and the potential weapon that lay within.

“Missy, you don’t understand -” Clara took a brave step forwards, her hands held out placatingly even as her eyes darted around as though she too had noticed that the Doctor had yet to become visible again. The blast of the particle disintegrator disrupted Clara’s hair as Missy’s warning shot missed by inches.

The Valeyard arched an eyebrow as his eyes glinted at this turn of events. Anahson suspected his mind was working quickly, trying to determine the best way to regain the upper hand.

“You do not want to test my accuracy, and that’s the last warning I’m giving any of you,” Missy’s nostrils flared as she raised her voice. “Doctor! You had better show yourself right now.”

Anahson looked back towards the door for any other distortion in the air that would indicate where her currently invisible friend had gone. The blur of static was still where she had seen it before and her heart sank. They had come so far, this couldn’t be how it ended.

“Clara,” she called, risking Missy’s ire without the blink of an eye. “He’s not moving.” She pointed as accurately as she could in the right direction and Clara immediately moved towards the door.

“Oi! It’s not like being time-looped will save you, sweetheart! Disintegration is disintegration, heartbeat or not.”

“You’re not calling the shots here, Missy,” Clara voice was calm and casual, although she still halted her movement and held her hands out to the side as though she was worried about startling a wild animal, “you never were.”

“Oh? Says who?”

Anahson’s eyes automatically slammed shut as the electronic blast of the disintegrator rang out. When she made herself open them again, she was surprised to see Ashildr and Clara still stood where they had been before, their shocked expressions mirroring her own. Anahson turned and looked around her, confused. The Valeyard. He was nowhere to be seen. _Missy_ _surely wouldn’t..._ With a noise that almost distracted her already dazed attention, Anahson swung around to see that the Seventh Door slamming soundly shut. Whipping her head back towards the Time Lady, Anahson watched as Missy proudly blew across the top of her weapon, looking for all the world as though she was clearing smoke from the barrel of a sharpshooter.

“Come now,” Missy’s a grin was twisted with uncontained delight, “you’ve got to admit that you’ve all been wanting me to do that since the moment you met the bleating windbag.”

* * *

The General ducked to avoid a low-hanging fibre optic cable as their party exited Lift Shaft Seven and emerged into the sacred, quiet dark of Gallifrey’s Cloisters. She was struck by how, despite everything she had done, everything she and Gastron had tried, she kept finding herself back in this exact same spot, over and over again. It was like fate was trying to tell her something.

Former Lord President Rassilon and High Councilwoman Meryllda led the way and the General watched their perimeter out of instinct as the Sliders patrolled the inner depths of the Cloisters beyond the stone columns, silently moving in that horrifyingly efficient way they had.

“I thought the Cloister Bells were supposed to be ringing,” Rassilon remarked.

“They are,” Meryllda said, “we’ve had to set up a dampening field. They’ve been peeling non-stop and they were deafening the guard we had posted.”

“Actually, Ma’am,” Gastron looked up from the display he’d affixed to his wrist, “they’ve stopped. The bells have fallen silent.”

“What?” The General couldn’t hold back the shock in her voice.

“Well, this is all a little irregular,” Rassilon chuffed as he made his way to the trapdoor where the Doctor had escaped to the workshop level. “Either the universe is falling apart or it isn’t, General. One can’t afford to be so uncertain of such things.”

Something under her right eye twitched and the General found herself swallowing the retort unbecoming of her rank that had come very close to forcing its way out of her mouth. Instead, she looked to Gastron.

“Major?”

“I can’t explain it, Ma’am. Something must have happened.”

“What searing insight.” Rassilon was actually enjoying this, the General decided much to her own irritation.

“Perhaps the Doctor -”

“I can still feel the anomaly,” Meryllda declared, her hand outstretched as though she could physically feel the deviation in spacetime, “it is still present. Can you feel it?”

“No one knows the Matrix better than I, of course I can” Rassilon ground his teeth. “A Hexadimensional Net. Some instabilities, but curiously well-formed. I assume this is the Doctor’s doing? What the hell is he playing at?”

“It’s the Valeyard’s doing,” the General corrected, “he’s been planning this since you allowed him entrance into the Doctor’s subconscious. I assume you remember your deal?” The lack of response satisfied her need for some sort of vindication. “Gastron, I need information,” she barked, trying to claw back control. If the Doctor had somehow managed to heal the rift that had been forming in the Matrix, there was every chance she could wrestle some semblance of power back away from Rassilon before he could do any damage with it. Her Major frowned up at her from the frantic readings scrawling across the small screen in front of him.

“I don’t know what to make of this, Ma’am…”

“General...” It was Councillor Meryllda, curiously moving closer as her feet shuffled across the concrete.

“One moment, Councillor,” the General held up a finger as she motioned for Gastron to spit out whatever was bothering him. And then she noticed it too.

The Sliders.

The Sliders, without her noticing - and she cursed herself for missing their silent movement - had gathered around them. They were a distance away and didn’t seem to be encroaching any closer but their group was effectively surrounded. It was unsettling, the way they watched from the sidelines, their faces flickering blue and white in their collar shells. Waiting. Observing. Plotting? The General pushed past the startled Meryllda and stepped beyond the confines of their tight circle, squinting into the darkness even as she heard Gastron fruitlessly disengage the safety button on his weapon. Their guns would do them no good if the Wraith decided to attack. Nothing would. It was with an almost freeing sense of finality that the General approached the closest of the tall figures and peered up at it. The Wraith were supposed to attack anything infiltrating this far into the Cloisters, absolutely anything at all. In the past, erstwhile students from the Academy had considered it a challenge to enter the Cloisters and dare each other further and further into its depths until one or all of them had been spooked and fled the scene. As far as she was aware, only one student had ever made it as far in as they were now.

The blue face of the Wraith flickered down at her mournfully, casting its ethereal glow. The General found herself transfixed as she stared at an expectedly familiar face. By rights, she should have been filed now. If the Wraith were doing their job, they should have cleared the area. Not one of them, even Rassilon, should still be standing. But the Wraith were holding back. Why?

And, more to the point - the General looked over her shoulder to where Gastron was stood and could tell from his wide eyes that he had noticed it too - why the hell was each and every single Wraith currently sporting the face of Clara Oswald?

* * *

  
Clara didn’t buy it for a second. Any credibility Missy had ever had with her, any dim inkling of begrudging respect, had long since died. The Valeyard was as likely to be disintegrated as she was to open her eyes and find herself enjoying a luxurious bubble bath with a glass of Merlot in one hand and a good book in the other. Right now, however, she had to focus on their plan, on making sure they didn’t fall at the last hurdle. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by whatever long game the Mistress was attempting to coerce them into. The Valeyard’s whereabouts, she suspected, would be revealed much sooner than she would probably like and she would deal with whatever disastrous fall out she had to when the time came. Somehow, she didn’t think that the Seventh Door closing as he vanished was a coincidence. And, if Missy had sent the Valeyard scurrying back into the Matrix, he was still as dangerous as he had ever been, even without the box and the Key.

“Anahson, where’s the Doctor? Did he make it through?”

“Have you gone quite mad, dear?” Of course, Missy wasn’t about to let her get to the matter at hand. There always had to be a song and dance and Clara’s patience snapped.

“Missy, look around you.” Clara gestured to the fading rifts circling them, trying to not dwell on what the disintegrating portals meant for the worlds at the other side. “This is it,” she slowly walked towards the Seventh Door as the particle disintegrator tracked her every footstep but, tellingly, did not fire. Clara felt her confidence increase. “This is the end of everything. Trust me, I’ve seen it. If you care anything for the universe, even if it’s just so you can destroy it all over again yourself in a week’s time, you need to let me help the Doctor.”

“It wasn’t him,” Anahson nervously called over and Clara frowned as she looked to where her young friend was frozen on the spot. Missy swung her arm back around to cover Anahson and Ashildr moved in front of the young Janus protectively, obscuring the Time Lady’s line of sight. “He’s still there,” Anahson pointed to the ground near Clara’s feet, “it wasn’t him who closed the door.”

Carefully, Clara crouched down in the dirt and searched tentatively until her fingers clutched at something solid and velveteen just a foot away from the door. He’d almost made it, he’d almost made it though. Cold dread trickled down her spine at the the thought of what might have stopped him. Hands trembling now, she felt her way down his shoulder until she found his wrist. Gingerly, she slipped the cold, unseen metal strap of the watch over his hand, taking care not to scrape his knuckles. She was focused so intently on her task that she almost didn’t register when he became visible again. Afraid of what she might find, Clara delayed looking at the Doctor’s face, instead mapping the skin drawn tightly over the deceptively fragile-looking bones of his hand, the smattering of sparse, fine hairs giving way to smooth, long, deft fingers. She clasped onto his ring finger as she finally allowed her gaze to flicker up to his unconscious, troubled features. His brow was furrowed, his breath puffing out from between pursed lips as though he was in tremendous pain. But alive, thankfully alive. A tell-tale ripple of golden light glimmered across his brow and suddenly Clara understood what had happened to him.

“Clara, get back,” Ashildr’s tone contained a dire warning.

“No, it’s not that,” she looked up at two concerned faces and one thunderously angry one as the other three women gathered closer. “He’s not regenerating, he’s getting his regenerations back.” She bit her lip. They should have thought of this. They’d come close to even joking about it, but neither of them had considered this possibility. She had felt dizzy and disoriented when her chronolock had been returned to her and her heartbeat had ceased again. She had never stopped to think what getting an entire cycle of regenerations - or more, who knew how many he’d been given on Trenzalore - would do to the Doctor. It was too much to take and they simply didn’t have time to wait for him to recover, the totality of time and space was wavering on a thread that was frayed beyond repair. She swore under her breath.

“What have you idiots done?” Missy barked as her quick mind apparently caught up with everything they had been trying to keep secret.

“Don’t start on that, Missy,” Ashildr bit back, “if you’d given them the Key in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.”

Clara stared back down at the Doctor as her mind raced. They had been so close and now everything was still falling apart. It wasn’t fair. They had saved Ashildr and Anahson, they’d got the Key away from Missy, the Chronon box away from the Valeyard. Now they had everything they needed except for, except for -

_Hang on a minute._

She looked down at the Doctor’s other hand, still firmly grasping onto something that was folded tightly into his palm. The Key of Rassilon - he still had it! As she made to loosen his grip, a shadow fell across her and she looked sharply upwards.

“Oh god,” Clara heard Anahson whisper, “we’re too late.”

The terminally grey sky above them seemed to shimmer and darken as a now hauntingly familiar crimson tinge began to bleed out from amongst the clouds, seeping across the sky and obliterating whatever dim vestiges of light had dared to bring life to the isolated moon. The rumbling of the earth beneath their feet ceased, leaving behind it a stomach-churning stillness. Evidently, the Valeyard’s plan was still proceeding even though he wasn’t present.

As Ashildr tilted her head backwards and took in the changing colours rampaging over their heads, Clara felt an inexplicable calm pass over her.

She understood now. She could see everything clearly and there was only one thing she could do to save them all.

She plucked the Key out of the Doctor’s hand and snatched back a brief second for herself from the jaws of time, smoothing his hair back in lieu of an apology or a farewell. Rising to her feet, her gaze darted around at the rifts which were now barely perceptible, pinpointing the one that looked a fraction brighter than the others.

“Clara, no.” It was Ashildr. As ever, her friend had clocked her intentions probably even before Clara had been aware of them herself.

“What else am I supposed to do?” She shrugged, helplessly. “You know we have to redirect the energy. It’s all in the Matrix now. It’s the only thing we have left to do.” She turned to Missy, fire in her eyes. She had long since given up trying to decipher whether the Time Lady had been in cahoots with the Valeyard all along. It really didn’t matter, not anymore. “It won’t let me pass through without this, right?”

“Well, well, well,” Missy smiled sickeningly. “You’re taking this whole Hybrid thing to heart now, aren’t you? Taking his place.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Clara, you can’t -” Anahson’s mouth hung open as the younger woman came desperately close to tears.

“You need to get through that rift,” Clara ordered, pointing in the direction of the one she knew would lead them to Gallifrey and Ashildr’s reality bubble. If she failed, if everything went sideways, there’d still be a sliver of a chance that the Doctor would come round and think of something.

“But -”

“Do as you are told!” Clara shouted, a sudden fury washing over her. The Doctor groaned quietly by her feet and she offered up a fervent prayer to the very universe she was trying to save. _Don’t be cruel, let me do this without him waking up._ She wheeled on Missy. “Take them through to Gallifrey. There’s a reality bubble, you’ll be safe there. If this doesn’t work, don’t you be selfish, Missy. You find a way to fix it, you hear me?”

She didn’t wait for whatever lie or taunt the Mistress was preparing, she’d already turned to Anahson. “Anahson, I’m so glad he found you; he couldn’t have asked for a better friend. Be his friend, yeah? Get him to the TARDIS. Save him.” She nodded to Ashildr with a look that said more than words ever could and heaved a sigh of relief as the two women rushed forward to lift the Doctor, hauling his arms over their shoulders and doing their best to drag him towards the waiting police box that was stood sadly observing on the outskirts of the Net.

Clara turned to face the Seventh Door, sensing more than witnessing Missy slope off in the direction of the Diner TARDIS as the sky above them darkened even further. She wasn’t worried; there was only one place left for the Time Lady to run. It was becoming hard to see as the crimson sky gradually blackened, and not a hint of a wind remained in the air. Everything else was lost.

 _But not for long_. With a determined set to her jaw, Clara slid her foot over to the small, silver box that had been lying patiently where Ashildr had placed it. As she had predicted, the box skittered away from her as soon as she got too close. Like a magnet repelling a matching pole, she managed to maneuver the box containing the last remnants of hers and the Doctor’s butchered timestream until it was pressed against the knotted wood of the door. As the sound of two dematerialising TARDISes echoed across the otherwise silent moon, Clara lifted the Key of Rassilon up to the etchings on the door and let out an unnecessary breath as they lit up and the door swung open.

With a final flick of her toe, the box crossed the threshold and fell into the blinding, kaleidoscopic light of the Matrix. The light erupted on impact before finally, ecstatically bursting out of the confines of the door frame and swallowing Clara Oswald whole.

By the time the blazing white flash had subsided, the Seventh Door and all of the surrounding rifts had vanished, leaving no sign that anything untoward had ever been on Eta Rho at all. The sky lightened from black, to crimson, to a shifting restless grey. A breeze fluttered across the ground as the dried, cracked soil spontaneously softened, the hardy plants sprouting from the quagmire slowly recovering their weedy green hue as their insect occupants blinked back into existence. The gas giant reclaimed its rightful place overshadowing the moon, and all was well with the world.

  
  
  
  
  



	14. This is Yesterday: Part II

           She.

                            Didn’t.

                                              Know.

                                                               Where.

                                                                                  She.

                                                                                                  Was.

 

The words tumbled around her head as the bright light engulfed her, consumed her, seeped through her skin and shone out of her pores. Over and over, an endless loop. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where she was. Time stopped and started, lurched and heaved, turned solid, evaporated and clouded cumulus around her. She could feel every second that had ever been, every minute yet to come. They swarmed through her: possibilities and realities, fantasies and histories.

Lost. She was lost.

Clara took a stumbling step forwards, disoriented and feeling as though she was watching her graceless attempts at motion from outside herself. She dimly registered relief at the sensation; it probably meant that she still actually had a corporeal form, hadn’t yet become the light which had swallowed her whole. Experimentally, she raised a heavy arm and tried to shield her eyes from the glaring white. The movement staggered before her - delayed - her arm splitting into multiple limbs, all of them travelling at different speeds, occupying separate moments of time, fanning out into a colour spectrum she could only partially perceive.

 _I’ve made a terrible mistake_ , she thought. The words echoed all around her, tickling at the fine hairs on the back of her neck, making them stand on end. The echo resonated, changing from her own voice to something deeper and far more malevolent. From the corner of her eye, she saw, or thought she saw, shifting figures surrounding her as heartless laughter filled the air. In an instant the shadows were gone: hidden or imagined.

Clara shook her head to try to clear her vision and instantly regretted it as something external unseated instead and she fell, cracking her kneecaps on a hard, unseen surface. Close by, she spotted an empty silver box, a conspicuous slice of reality amongst the ether. She had kicked it through the Seventh Door ahead of her, she remembered. A thousand lifetimes ago. Its contents whirled with intent through the air, tendrils reaching out for her nostrils, her mouth… A rush passed through her and she gasped, overcome.

Half collapsed, Clara flattened her hand against the ground - make that floor, it was a floor - unnatural, smooth and cold to the touch like polished marble. It also happened to radiate anger, snarling at her intrusion, snapping at her fingers. Hurriedly, she pushed herself up and away from whatever the hell it was, propelling herself into a unsteady lurch in what she hoped was the right direction, any direction.

Turning in a tight, frightened circle, Clara desperately tried to recall everything the Doctor had ever told her about the Matrix. Squeezing her eyes shut since they were doing her absolutely no favours whatsoever, she sternly tried to regiment her thoughts.

Here was what she knew, or thought she knew: the Matrix was the database of all Time Lord knowledge, like a supercomputer they were all uploaded into when they died. It was a place that could spew out prophecies like they were going out of fashion - Hybrid this, prodigal son that - ruining lives, spreading fear, tearing universes asunder...and she had just blundered into it, hadn’t she? Thinking she could blag her way out of another impossible situation and somehow save the universe while she was at it. How had she thought she was going to escape from this one? Clearly, her death hadn’t been enough of a deterrent from this kind of behaviour.

Focus. What else?

She knew the Doctor wasn’t a fan of the Matrix and had quite quickly come to grasp why. He had never looked forward to being filed away at the end of his long life, had never really discussed it with her much at all and, knowing him, that meant the Doctor would probably do whatever he could to avoid it. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was the sad sum of all her knowledge and she wasn’t about to discount any of it.

As time passed, or possibly didn’t - who could say? - she was starting to feel more like herself and less like her brain was floating somewhere above her body on a long, wavering, dangerously frayed rope. She took another tentative step forward, clamping down on her panic. If all the energy of the rifts was now contained within the Matrix, then she had to find a way to reverse the progress of the Hexadimensional Net and restore everything back to the way it had been before the Valeyard had started to interfere with their timestreams. Easier said than done, especially when you were in a place where you weren’t even sure what was real, including yourself.

It took a moment to register that she was hearing a sound.

Footsteps? Footsteps echoing on stone.

They stopped when she stopped, resumed when she continued walking. Unable to reign in her curiosity Clara opened her eyes, preparing for the brightness to overwhelm her once more. Instead, she blinked with surprise. She was all of a sudden stood in the centre of a cavernous banqueting hall dominated by a long, wooden table. The hall was vast but barely lit, save for whatever pale yellow light streamed in through the tall, majestic windows embedded in the external wall. Cold and ramshackle, it looked like she had teleported into the centre of a vast, lonely castle belonging to a long forgotten empire.

At one end of the room, she spied golden cogs in the wall, a large clockwork fixture installed in the stone. The mechanism looked out of place and Clara made a mental note, automatically creating a checklist of things to investigate, a habit borne of years of travel and trouble.

A bowl and a spoon were abandoned on a cloth place mat at the head of the table. She touched the fabric of it, felt each thread rub against the whorling patterns of her fingerprints. Real enough. Too detailed and tactile to be a hologram. Clara supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, the Time Lords had more power than she could even begin to understand. So why this place? Why did the Matrix suddenly look like this? She looked around, hands on hips, assessing: an empty goblet, a plate, musty and stale air. A growing feeling of unease.

She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know...

She tried to wrap her head around how tangible everything seemed compared to the unfathomable space she had been in before, tried to find something to cling to in order to help her navigate. The room was aloof, she thought. Uncaring. Puritanical, almost. It occurred to her, for no real reason, that this room was the opposite of everything the Doctor stood for, that it seemed strange the Matrix would present itself to her like this, so removed from the Time Lord she knew. Inexplicably, she imagined him lonely there, a solitary shadow cast along the floor as he ladled soup into his mouth.

A television screen in the corner of the room caught her attention and she cautiously made her way over to it - _anachronisms, always look for anachronisms_ \- treading deliberately, making sure to plant her feet on solid surfaces just in case everything reverted back to the way it had been when she’d arrived. A black and white static-laden image played out on the screen and Clara watched, horror-struck, as an emaciated, heartbreaking figure dragged himself along the floor, excruciatingly making his way up a steep and winding spiral staircase.

A single fly crawled across the image, from one corner of the screen to the other. Fascinated, she watched its journey as its suckered feet clung to the camera lens. She was just about to return her attention to the man when the fly buzzed loudly.

It buzzed, but it wasn’t in the room.

Clara froze.

Tentatively, scared more than she would show, she reached out with her index finger. Just as she was about to touch the image, the fly flew out of the set sending her reeling backwards before it loudly zigzagged up and away, disappearing into the high recesses of the beamed roof. Clara let out a nervous laugh. It was only a fly, for crying out loud! She’d faced worse in her nightgown. Turning her gaze back to the screen, grateful for once that she didn’t have a heartbeat thundering in her chest to undermine her bravado, she watched as the figure continued his slow, torturous progress up the stairs, unaware of her scrutiny.

There was no mistaking that figure, no matter how defeated he looked; she would know him anywhere. She fought back the tears of dismay that blurred his agony.

“No.” Her whispered plea sounded far louder in the solemn quiet of the banqueting hall.

The figure on the screen had reached the top of the staircase and crawled painfully out the view of the camera. In the Doctor’s absence, a thin but unmistakable shadow slid across the wall, pausing only briefly as though it was somehow aware of her presence and observing her just as she was it.

All at once, with a sickening jolt, it dawned on Clara that she did, in fact, know _exactly_ where she was.

* * *

The General had seen it all. She’d seen Dalek fleets disintegrate entire systems, she’d seen supernovae exploding across the cosmos, stars being born and stars dying. She had lived a long time and had lived well, more than making up for the years in which she had lived poorly. In short, the General shouldn’t really have been surprised when the two TARDISes materialised in the most secure section of Gallifrey’s Citadel but even she had to admit to herself that this latest development was unforeseen. The only saving grace was that Rassilon and Meryllda were similarly stunned, although Rassilon’s expression quickly shifted to anger as soon as the blue police box solidified.

The doors to both time machines burst open and the inhabitants came storming out, all of them - with one notable exception - looking frantic, exhausted and worse for wear.

“What the hell?” the Doctor was instantly furious, gaping around at them with his eyes practically bulging out of his skull. “What are we doing here?” He was out of breath, unsteady on his feet, hair stuck out at every possible angle.

The Wraith surrounding them, motionless and domineering, did not react. Clara Oswald’s face, flickering its eerie blue light, continued to silently scream. With a slight tilt of her head, the General indicated to Gastron that he and his soldiers should lower their weapons. With a quirk of her eyebrow towards the Mistress, however, she also wordlessly suggested that they should stay on their guard.

“It can’t be -” Lady Me began, looking similarly alarmed. “We should be -”

“I know where we should be,” the Doctor snapped, turning on the woman. “But we’re rather obviously _not_.”

“Well, this is a turn up for the books,” Missy drawled, leaning casually against the frontispiece of the Diner as she, the General knew, counted the number of weapons in the immediate vicinity. “‘You’ll rematerialise at the end of the universe’, they said. ‘There’s a reality bubble, it’s dead good’, they said...”

“Doctor,” the General looked to Gastron and gave a nod to tell him to prepare for any trouble. “What have you done?” The Doctor seemed not to hear her, falling slightly as the colour drained from his face. The young Janus, Anahson, stepped forward to help keep him steady.

“Doctor, you’ve got to calm down. You’ve only just come round.”

“I just need to think.” His brow furrowed again and he ran both hands violently through his hair. “Think, _think_!”

“Okay, so what do we know?” Ashildr bravely stepped forward, risking the Doctor’s ire by getting in his line of sight. “The rifts were closing, we went through the one that led to Gallifrey -”

“Which is where we are,” the Doctor seemed to accept the immortal woman’s help and folded his arms across his chest before reaching up with one hand to rub his chin. “But at the wrong time. In the wrong universe, which shouldn’t be possible. It’s _impossible_. Unless… Unless -” Sharp blue eyes pierced their small, bewildered party with a stare. “Why are you all being so quiet?”

“Well,” Councillor Meryllda hesitated.

“Shut up. Shut up!”

He had noticed.

The Doctor’s expressive face seemed to fall in on itself as he stared at the Wraith surrounding them and his gaze roved over the likeness each one bore.

“No.” The word was an entreaty to the universe rather than being directed towards anyone else in the vicinity. He took a step forward, more of a stagger than a conscious movement. “Clara -”

“Doctor -” the General tried again.

“Give me access,” the Doctor suddenly span around and pinned the General with a stare so direct that if she had been a few regenerations younger she would have quaked in her boots. His eyes were red rimmed, full of liquid fire. “Give me access to the Matrix now.”

Putting her five-star tactical mind to quick work, she forced herself to look around the weary group, her hearts thundering in her chest as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place: Clara Oswald’s face on the Wraith, the sudden silence from the Cloister Bells, the young human’s conspicuous absence. Something dreadful buried itself in the pit of her stomach as she realised the role she was going to have to play in this stand off.

“No,” she said, firmly. “Doctor, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t even know what you’re saying no to,” Ashildr’s frown almost rivalled the Doctor’s as the two time travellers stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

“She knows,” the Doctor growled. “So I don’t quite understand why she is still standing in my way.”

Missy snorted loudly and the General heard Gastron and his team move their fingers off their trigger guards. “Look around you! Reach out with your dull Time Lord senses, if you even bothered learning how -” the Time Lady smirked, enjoying herself far too much. “Time is fixed, the rifts are healing. You did it, Doctor. You won.”

“General?” Councillor Meryllda sounded confused. “Explain.”

“Allow me,” Rassilon wetly licked his lips and allowed a small smile to play across them.

“There’s no time!” the Doctor’s desperate shout bounced off the distant Cloister columns. The General thought she saw dust interrupted from the force of it filter from the ceiling. As calmly as she was able, she stared the Doctor down as he all but trembled with rage.

“And this is the man you chose as Lord President,” Rassilon scoffed. The disgraced leader stepped into the middle of their tight circle, clasping his hands behind his back as though he were lecturing a group of unruly students at the Academy. “I assume your human... _companion_ ,” he all but spat the word, “entered the Matrix through the Seventh Door? That you believed you could reverse the damage done by the Valeyard and heal Time.” Rassilon looked to Meryllda and saw she was not fully following. “The Seventh Door,” he intoned, “is the last component of the Net. Whoever enters the Matrix after the connection is established can project their reality outwards, using the rifts both as a power source and a relay.”

“An excellent idea for a weapon, by the way,” the Doctor finally acknowledged Rassilon’s presence but only with an anger-filled sideways glance, “only the most narcissistic of despots could have come up with it.”

“The bells must have stopped tolling because Clara Oswald is in the Matrix,” the General nodded to the faces of the Wraith. “She’s projecting her reality outward, whether she knows it or not, repairing the damage.” She risked a look back towards the Doctor before addressing Meryllda directly. The Councilwoman would have the deciding vote. “Councillor, if we allow Miss Oswald to be removed from the Matrix, it could reassert the Valeyard’s plan. We have no idea what damage we could cause.”

“She’s in there alone,” the Doctor spoke through gritted teeth.

“Oh, not quite alone,” Missy gleefully informed him, in a sing-song voice. “She’s got a little friend to play with. Not much of a conversationalist I’ll grant you, but I’m sure he’ll keep her occupied for a few dozen eternities or so.”

If it was possible, the Doctor paled even further.

“The Valeyard.” It was Anahson who voiced his fear, staring at Missy with dismay. “But you disintegrated him, we saw you do it.”

“Say what you want about old Boneyard,” the Mistress seemed almost bored now, “but he does always have an escape plan. He might not be a _proper_ Time Lord -” she danced her piercing blue eyes across Rassilon briefly, as if watching for his reaction - “but he sure knows how to run away like one.”

The General glanced at Councillor Meryllda, who gave a quick, decisive shake of her head. With one hand gesture, the newly arrived time travellers found themselves staring down the barrels of Gastron and his team’s weapons. The rifles were all set to stun, but Missy and the Doctor didn’t need to be privy to that information at this particular juncture.

“Doctor, I’m sorry,” Councillor Meryllda said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “But we can’t risk anyone else entering the Matrix, not now that the crisis has been averted. You understand that and I’m sure Miss Oswald understood that too. We must honour her sacrifice.”

The Doctor’s eyes narrowed as his breath sounded through his nostrils in loud puffs, like a bull preparing to charge. Ashildr’s hand on his shoulder seemed to keep him somewhat in check.

“Major, take them all to the secure quarters on the higher levels until we can convene the High Council,” Gastron nodded at her command, “I want them separated and guarded at all times.” The General swallowed against the look of self-satisfaction on Rassilon’s face as the guards closed in on the weary time travellers, swiftly disarming the Mistress as she loudly complained that they were no fun at all.

“General, allow me to clear the way,” Rassilon sneered, holding up his gauntlet with a suffocating air of superiority. With an affected wave of near regal encouragement from his glinting hand, the Sliders turned their backs and began to smoothly drift away to their ghostly duties, taking with them their last glimpse of Clara Oswald’s terrified face.

As Gastron and his team frog-marched their prisoners towards the lift shaft, the General found she was unable to meet the Doctor’s pleading stare. She wouldn’t allow herself to bow to his fury, not this time. Time was fixed, the universe was no longer under threat. It was a shame that Clara Oswald had been lost as a result, it really was, but there was nothing to be done. Somehow, she didn’t think that was going to stop the Doctor from trying.

* * *

He could feel her. Alone, afraid, trying not to show it. Her humanity was permeating throughout the Matrix like a discordant note in an otherwise perfect harmony. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was worried. He shouldn’t be able to feel her this strongly; it suggested that her influence over their surroundings was powerful, too powerful.

The Valeyard stood stock still, listening to what his senses were telling him.

It wouldn’t be long before she realised where she was and he took a moment to relish the shock his meticulously recreated arena would cause in the persistent human. The machinations of the Confession Dial had imprisoned the Doctor - and, by virtue of being trapped inside his subconscious, the Valeyard himself - for four and a half billion years and Clara Oswald was all too aware of the whys and wherefores of her precious Time Lord’s suffering. It was her. The Doctor had fought so hard and for so long for her, purely for the chance to see her again, a fundamental weakness the Valeyard had gratefully clung to, slipping through the cracks until the neural block had finally allowed him to break through into the Doctor's plain of existence. The Valeyard was willing to bet that suddenly being transported to witness this torture first hand would unsettle the woman, at the very least. He very much doubted the guilt would destroy her, but he could always hope.

The Valeyard swept down the long, narrow corridor, his gaze flickering every few moments to glimpse the ocean that endlessly stretched beyond the confines of the castle and its rugged stronghold. No, while leaving them to fester in the hallucinatory turmoil of the Matrix might dispatch of most humans, Clara Oswald had already proven herself to be a worthy foe and a keener study of the Doctor’s methods than any previous companion the Valeyard had encountered. He would not underestimate her again.

He reached a thick wooden door that he knew led to an opulent bedroom with an ancient oil painting hung on the wall. He hesitated before pulling the door open as his dark eyes blazed with the formation of a plan. If he could just lead her to this room, perhaps he wouldn’t even have to reclaim his power through force, perhaps he could trick her into simply handing it straight back to him of her own free will. Emboldened, he entered the bedroom and paced its length and breadth, looking for anything untoward that might give the game away. He ran his finger through the thick layer of dust on the mantelpiece, picked up the eyeglass resting next to the painting and tossed it from one hand to the other as though testing its weight.

Yes, this would do perfectly.

With an arched eyebrow, he darkened the sky outside to an overbearing dusk. The room instantly grew gloomy, bathed in the light of a million weak stars as their dwindling glimmer filtered through the thick glass window, crisscrossing shadows on the cold stone floor. With a twitch of his fingers that was purely for his own entertainment, he sparked life into the fireplace. Warmth and light creeped their cosy influence into even the darkest corners as the Valeyard smiled and pushed the door so it was left open an inviting crack. As he turned away and strode over to the bed, he seemed to grow a couple of inches taller. The jet black hair so tightly controlled on his head lightened several shades into a messy, curled myriad of greys and browns. The dark eyes which had burned so malevolently such a short time ago began to dance blue with kindness and humour, accompanied by laughter lines that framed expressive features and a domineering brow. As he swung long legs and booted feet onto the bed, his black suit jacket and immaculately pressed shirt gave way to crumpled red velvet with mismatched buttons.

With a predatory smile that looked entirely out of place on this face, the Valeyard cushioned the back of his head on interlaced fingers and rested back against the bed’s sumptuous pillows, waiting.

* * *

There was a knock at the door, startling the Doctor from his uncoordinated pacing.

As far as solitary confinement went, the Citadel’s holding cells weren’t the worst he’d experienced. He had to be grateful for small mercies: the Time Lords could easily have flung them all into a Genesis Ark, or had them cryogenically frozen and shipped out to Shada. They could have sent him to any prison at any point of time, in any far-flung corner of space, if they’d put their minds to it. But they hadn’t. The Doctor clung to this fact as he stared with confusion at the sealed door: perhaps he was about to find out why. His mind raced even as he finally stilled in the centre of the small, impeccable room. The Matrix, the Valeyard, Rassilon’s return to Gallifrey and the General’s apologies...they all faded into the background and gave way to the flickering, screaming image of Clara Oswald’s face projected onto the Sliders’ collars.

He had to escape.

The smooth walls of the cell could not be scaled. There were no vents, no corners or edges, nothing to climb or repurpose as a weapon. He couldn’t hide or feign illness, as the sensors lining the walls monitored his every move and energy signature. A time distortion field projected inside the door frame slowed access into and out of the cell so that anything physically passing through was caught in its web - rushing the door resulted in nothing more than a futile, slow-motion farce. So: an effective prison. No chains to be broken, no tunnels to be dug and, he suspected, identical holding cells all the way down the wing of the Citadel he had been dragged. For all he knew, Ashildr could be on one side of him and Anahson on the other, not that the knowledge could do them any good at all. A shiver of what might have been residual regeneration energy rippled down his spine as he tilted his head towards the door.

Knocking, he reminded himself. Why would anyone be knocking?

Another four raps sounded, somehow managing to convey annoyance at his lack of response. A hiss of a releasing mechanism and the door glowed green, the lock disengaged. Taking a step backwards, the Doctor stared as it swept to one side, unveiling Gastron, who looked every bit as surprised to see the Doctor as he was him. The Doctor  chewed his lip as they stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide.

“Gastron, good lad,” the Doctor swallowed nervously but quickly covered it up by rubbing his hands together with forced enthusiasm. Something about the young soldier’s demeanour unsettled him. “Please tell me you’re here to disobey orders.”

He didn’t notice the second figure posing melodramatically over Gastron’s shoulder until it was too late. As soon as he switched his gaze to where the Mistress was awaiting his full attention there was a loud, dull _thud_ and a puff of smoke rose into the air, accompanied by a bitter, acrid smell. Gastron pitched forward, passing through the doorway as he fell. Red spittle flecked from lips which froze in an almost disappointed ‘o’. A shade of crimson a fraction darker than his melting armour blossomed across the centre of his chest, directly over his hearts. As he fell, Gastron passed through the distortion field and, by the time the Doctor had rushed forward to catch the young man in his arms, his descent to the ground had slowed to the point where he was suspended in mid-air. Incrementally, by degrees, the Doctor could only watch as the light left Gastron’s eyes, the moment of  his death unnaturally prolonged.

“Missy!” His horror was balanced out by his absolute fury as he spat his old friend’s name.

“You’re welcome,” she curtseyed delicately before flinging Gastron’s blaster to the floor with a hollow, echoing clatter. The Major finally cleared the distortion field and the Doctor struggled to gather his body close against his chest before lowering him to the ground.

“Regenerate,” he commanded, muttering under his breath as he quickly shrugged off his velvet jacket and settled it underneath Gastron. “Come on, Major...” He took in the expanding stain on the soldier’s tunic, the glassy, gazeless stare that focused on a fixed, unseeable point, and his hearts sank. The Doctor bowed his head.

Missy cleared her throat, lingering in the doorway impatiently. He refused to look at her, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing his grief.

“Don’t go wasting your head start. I would say the alarms should be kicking in just about…” the Mistress looked at an imaginary watch before opening her mouth as though to speak. She snapped it shut with a grimace when the quiet persisted. A second later, loud sirens sounded throughout the corridor. With an exaggerated jovial shrug, Missy blew the Doctor a kiss and skipped out of sight.

He jumped to his feet, raging and ready to chase her and wring the life out of her, if that’s what it took. Why? Why did she always have to do this? Why couldn't she just for _once_ do the right thing? The distortion field slowed him as he exited his cell, inching through the doorway as though he was trying to wade through molasses. The field had served its purpose and, by the time the Doctor emerged gasping and overcome with emotion into the corridor, lights were flashing, scanning for movement. Voices shouted orders that echoed along the walls as they rapidly drew closer. The Doctor span on one foot, momentarily indecisive. He was sorely tempted to chase Missy down, to make her pay for what she had done but - and he hated to admit this - she was right. He couldn’t waste his head start, couldn’t delay in trying to get back down to the Cloisters before they, and his access to the Matrix, to Clara, was sealed off and put under lockdown.

“Doctor!” He span in the opposite direction, gratefully absorbing the sight of Ashildr and Anahson as they dazedly jogged towards him, their own prison guards slumped at awkward angles, unmoving. “Where did she go?” Thinking quickly, he moved away from his open cell door and the body lying inside. He grabbed Anahson’s elbow and propelled them into a run, trusting that Ashildr would follow.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted as they reached a corner, steering them clumsily around it and half crashing into a pillar with his left shoulder. He pushed them ahead of him, pointing frantically at a half-concealed doorway to the Citadel’s ancient, disused maintenance hatch. “Ashildr, there!”

The Citadel guards were thundering after them, shouting for them to surrender, relaying the news of their fallen colleagues into radios and sweating fearfully under their helmets and armour. He was the man who won the Time War after all, there was no level of training that could prepare them for this target. A close shot from a blaster singed the now off-white cotton of his well-worn shirt and a sharp heat spread out from the site of the flesh wound. The Doctor dismissed the pain, using the adrenaline to bundle Anahson through the small opening before ducking in himself. With a heave, he slammed the hatch closed and immediately ripped out the electronic control panel with his bare hands, tearing through wires and fibre optics like they were tissue paper, ignoring the electricity dancing across his knuckles. A shower of sparks illuminated the tiny platform on which the three of them were precariously huddled, their gasping breaths mixing with the now dampened alarms on the other side of the wall.

The Doctor looked down at the wide, worried eyes of Ashildr and Anahson, barely glinting in the blackness. He waited for a moment and then experimentally waved his hand over the edge of the platform, trying to find the motion sensor that should activate as soon as anything crossed the threshold. Sure enough, a clanking sound reverberated all around them and, one orange lighting tube at a time, revealed a seemingly endless ladder. Above them and below them, breaking only temporarily at the platform and others like it, identically placed at periodic intervals between levels, the ladder stretched off into the dark the emergency lighting could not touch.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Anahson gave a hollow laugh as though the very sight of something so mundane in the heart of the Citadel was absurd to her.

“Up or down?” Ashildr asked, with a concerned glance to the door. “That isn’t going to delay them for long.”

“I need to get back to the Cloisters,” the Doctor growled, peering down into the depths below them. “They’ll be tightening security, it may already be too late.”

“Down it is then,” Anahson nervously fingered the metal disc of the defunct inhibitor in the pocket of her jeans. “Who wants to go first?”

“I’m going alone.” The Doctor swung a long leg over the railing and edged out over the drop feet first before either woman could stop him. He looked back up at them and was almost exasperated by the determination he saw in them. Of course, this wasn’t going to be easy.

“Not a chance,” Anahson grabbed onto the dirtied cuff of his shirt, her usually warm eyes blazing. “You think you can ditch us after everything we’ve been through?”

“I was sort of hoping so, yes,” he quipped, before taking a breath. He hated that he was about to ask this, wished with everything that he was he could guarantee Anahson and Ashildr could just hide and be safe - _nobody’s ever safe_ \- but even he couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. “I don’t have the luxury of keeping you out of harm’s way. I need you both to head upwards, further into the Citadel,” he said, looking up at them both seriously. “I’m terribly sorry to ask you this but... she killed Gastron, she’s loose on Gallifrey and I have no idea what she’s got planned next.”

“Missy,” Ashildr glanced at Anashon who reluctantly loosened her grip on the Doctor, “you need us to stop Missy.”

He nodded up at them, unable to quite make eye contact. He couldn’t bear the idea of his friends facing the Mistress alone. Anahson rose up, straightening the twisted zip of her hoody.

“You go,” she said, her voice strong and sure. “We’ve got this. Go and get Clara. We all finish this together.”

“Together,” Ashildr affirmed, “or not at all.”

“Preferably together though, yeah?” Anahson shot Ashildr a look that almost made the Doctor laugh despite himself. With his hearts a fraction lighter, he began his steady climb down the ladder, descending into darkness until the platform and his companions’ worried, drawn faces gradually disappeared from view.

* * *

The temperature dropped as night unexpectedly and nonlinearly announced its presence. Clara had spent what felt like hours wandering the vast halls and passageways of the castle, but hadn’t come any closer to finding another soul, nor had she seen any other signs of the Doctor on the screens which apparently adorned the walls of each and every room and chamber. Frustrated, feeling no less lost than she had when she had first stepped through the Seventh Door, Clara began to wonder whether this was perhaps it: her punishment. Maybe to keep the universe safe, she was condemned to spend as long in this Matrix interpretation of the Doctor’s Confession Dial as he had for her in the real thing. That didn’t quite explain, however, the persistent sensation that she wasn’t the castle’s sole inhabitant, but she supposed it would pass for poetic justice in a universe that clearly wanted her dead but not dead, irrevocably linked with the Doctor and yet always parted from him.

She was starting to get morose. No good could ever come from that, she scolded herself. All she had to do was figure out exactly how she was going to win. Once she’d sorted that, everything else would undoubtedly fall into place.

So, she kept moving. Down another narrow corridor lined with dust so thick it had become sand. Up another staircase, past terrifying words painted onto the walls: _As you come into this world, something else is also born_. She shuddered, kept walking, pausing at length only when she came across wet items of the Doctor’s clothing strewn on the floor. She stopped to hang them so they could dry by the tirelessly roaring fire. He’d told her about the skulls under the water in the small amount of time they’d had in the Cloisters. She was reminded of his off-hand, practically nonchalant explanation as she smoothed her hand over the damp velvet of his jacket and fought back her reaction to the flourishing understanding of exactly the sort of trauma he had endured. She had to find a way out. She couldn’t just give up: she didn’t even know if the others had made it to safety. She didn’t even know if they were still alive.

Another corridor - they were starting to all look the same - but this time Clara’s footsteps faltered. There was a light, a homely glow, shining through the crack of a door that was slightly ajar. Out of habit, she swallowed. So, this was whatever came next. _About bloody time_. Quelling the part of herself that wanted to turn around and run as quickly as she could in the opposite direction, she walked cautiously until she could place her hand on the door and pull it quietly open. Not wanting fanfare, nor the opportunity to change her mind, she stepped inside.

The fireplace crackled merrily, bathing the room in a welcoming orange glow that did nothing to reassure Clara. She noted the flowers, the window, gazed up in wonder at the painting that exactly captured her likeness. In fact, she was so drawn to the portrait that she didn’t realise she wasn’t the only person in the room until he spoke.

“I painted that,” came a rough brogue from somewhere behind her. Clara jumped out of her skin and span around, mouth wide open. “A long time ago now, but I remember every brush-stroke.”

“Doctor?”

“Clara.”

She stayed exactly where she was even as he swung his legs off the luxurious bed and stood on the far side of it.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“When do I not see you?”

“You’ve said that to me before.”

“Still true.” He moved as though to approach her and she held out a hand of warning to stop him in his tracks. The Doctor frowned. “You’re a hallucination, you’re not supposed to be telling me what to do.”

“I’m a what now?”

“Clara,” he waved his hands around the room as if to bring her attention to where they were, “we’re in my Confession Dial. You’re not really here. You...You died. On Trap Street. But don’t worry, I’ve got a way to bring you back. I’ve just got to hang in here for a bit. If you’ve come to give me another pep-talk, I’m fine. I was just having a rest.”

“We’re not really in the Confession Dial. I know it looks like it but it’s not. It can’t be.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s - look, I’m not going to argue with you about this. You’re the one that’s the hallucination, all right?”

“I must say, this is preferable to your chalkboard messages,” his eyes twinkled with mischief. “It’s good to see you from the front.”

“Are you... _flirting_ with me right now?” Clara raised a surprised eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest defensively as he finally seemed to work up the courage to walk over to her.

“So what if I am?”

“Seriously?” Whatever she had been about to add was lost in her throat as the Doctor reached out and curled a strand of her hair around his fingers. She looked up at him, trying to read his slightly shadowed features. There was something hypnotic about him, she thought dimly. Something familiar but not entirely pleasant; it was as though she couldn’t quite see him clearly. Normally, she could always see the Doctor clearly, he stood out from everyone else she had ever met. No, something was wrong. Clara shook her head and stepped away.

“We don’t have time for this. You need to listen to what I’ve got to say.” A strange expression flickered across the Doctor’s face for the briefest of seconds before he nodded and dropped his hand back down to his side. She took a preparatory breath: “This isn’t the Confession Dial.”

“Clara -”

“When did you stop trusting me?”

“I-” He fell silent.

“Well then.” Clara moved a few paces away and began to patrol the room as she spoke. She took in the small details of the place: a line drawn by a finger in the dust on the mantelpiece, the eyeglass with an impression next to it to show where it had previously lain. “This isn’t the Confession Dial. We’re in the Matrix.”

“Hardly,” he scoffed.

“Don’t interrupt, I’m trying to think.”

“Yes, boss.” The Doctor sat down on the corner of the bed, clenching his fist against his thigh.

“At first it was all white and glowing, fairly standard Time Lord fare, come to think of it. Kind of like being thrown into your timestream but trippier, if that’s even possible. And then I was here. _Poof_. Now, tell me something: the Matrix can be shaped by whoever’s in it, right? Its reality can be altered, like the Gremshall Mine in the pyramid.”

“Yes. Then there’s the default setting, to put it in terms you’d understand.”

“Right, the glowing white spacey stuff.”

“Clara, it’s a manifestation of everything there will ever be and everything that ever was, ‘stuff’ doesn’t quite do it justice.”

“Oh really? What would you call it?” Clara was starting to get into their conversation now, her mind racing down different avenues as she bounced her ideas off him. It was like old times, it was helping. She cut off his answer with a look. “Never mind. So, the fact that I’m here, in your Confession Dial or some approximation of it; that’s not me. I’ve never been here. I wouldn’t know what kind of wood the doors were made of, what artwork was hung on the walls.” She glanced over at the portrait of herself and smiled down at the Doctor who shifted uncomfortably. “It must have been created by someone who’s been here before. But not you, because you told me you think this is the real deal. If you don't believe you're in the Matrix, you can't be manipulating it, surely. It’s got to take some element of control, otherwise the place it became would make no sense. Without someone directing it, wouldn’t it be like a mess of scattered thoughts?”

“Who else, then?” The Doctor narrowed his eyes.

She watched him closely, “The only thing I can think is that when Missy disintegrated the Valeyard on Eta Rho, he found his way in here somehow. Prematurely, before the Net was complete. He’s got to be the one pulling the strings.”

The Doctor shrugged, casually. Clara frowned at him.

“That’s all you’ve got to say on the subject?”

“What do you want me to say? You think I’m a hallucination, I think you’re a hallucination…”

“Let’s call the whole thing off?” Clara gave a small smile. “Well, we can’t both be right, can we?”

“Clara, I’m here. I’m real. It’s me.” He rose from the bed, held out his hand to her, waggling his fingers invitingly. With a resigned tilt of her head, she threaded her fingers between his. “See?” The Doctor pleaded with her, giving her an encouraging smile. Wistfully, Clara smiled back. She wanted so desperately for it to be true. She wasn’t, however, an idiot. She rolled her eyes and gripped his hand tighter, holding him fast.

“You see, there’s a couple of things that gave you away. One: when the Doctor was in his Confession Dial, he had no bloody idea that the Valeyard was shacked up in his subconscious. And he did far more than just shrug it off when he found out, which I suppose you wouldn’t know, but - I mean, _come on_ \- you could have at least guessed. Two: say I _was_ hallucinating the Doctor. Fine, that’s a totally reasonable assumption to make; I need him. I want him with me but…” Clara looked the Doctor straight in the eye, her suspicions confirmed by what she saw hidden in those depths, “I would never want him back here. Not in four and half billion years. Not even as a figment of my frankly brilliant and very vivid imagination. Which I suppose leaves us with one final question, Valeyard-” the Matrix quivered and shook as the projection the Valeyard had been maintaining fell away. The Doctor’s face and attire melted under her burning gaze until the thin, monochrome embodiment of evil stood in his place. Clara raised her chin, finally feeling in control since the first time she had stepped through the Seventh Door.

“- What the hell is it, exactly, that you want from me?”

* * *

Ashildr pressed herself against the wall and held her breath. As the soldiers approached their hiding place, she looked over to Anahson and nodded to let the other woman know to get ready. For the first time, she noticed dark circles under Anahson’s eyes and suspected the tired, slightly haunted look was mirrored on her own face. They were both exhausted. The climb up the ladder had been arduous, taking more time than the immortal woman cared to count. From the look of it, however, they’d emerged in the right place; there was plenty of activity on this level so it was a reasonable assumption that Missy was close by. If Ashildr had been in charge of the troops - and on any number of occasions from the Crusades onwards, she had - she would have split the forces too. The General wasn’t stupid: as much as she would be wanting to prevent the Doctor from reaching the Cloisters and accessing the Matrix, she wouldn’t be able to leave Missy roaming free, causing havoc and leaving a trail of destruction across the Citadel. The Time Lady had already killed her right hand man, and Ashildr knew the General would want to settle the score.

However, if Missy didn’t want to be found, the General and her guards were going to have their work cut out for them. If Missy _did_ want to be found, there was every chance the troops would be walking straight into a bloodbath, no matter how well trained they were. Whatever way you looked at it, she and Anahson were a strategic advantage: an immortal and a Janus with significant experience of Missy and friends of the Doctor to boot. A two for one bargain that Ashildr was counting on being their saving grace. They were high value assets and, if they were allowed to keep their liberty on the proviso they help search for Missy, she and Anahson might just be able to figure out what the hell the Mistress was up to in time enough to be able to stop her. Of course - Ashildr indicated to Anahson to hold off for a few seconds until the soldiers had passed - there was every chance they could also run a little bit of interference to give the Doctor the stroke of incredible luck he was going to need in order to breach the Matrix’s defences.

Anahson raised an eyebrow at her and Ashildr gave the young woman a reassuring smile. God, she was tired. When had any of them last slept? It was probably telling that she couldn’t remember. No hope for such luxuries now though, it was time to test her theory. In unison, she and Anahson rounded the column they had stealthily moved to crouch behind, allowing the guard covering the back of the squadron to spot them and  hurriedly swing her weapon in their direction.

“Eyes rear!”

Ashildr held up her hands to show them she posed no threat. Next to her, Anahson followed suit.

“We’re here to help,” Ashildr said as two of the group of five guards swiftly approached them and frisked them down, searching for weapons. “We don’t have any weapons.”

“Quiet,” the Captain demanded as her men signalled to her that the two time travellers were indeed unarmed. “Where’s the Mistress? The Doctor?”

“One of them killed Gastron,” a male guard added, staring at them nervously down the sights of his blaster.

“We knew Gastron,” Anahson replied, calmly. “He was our friend. He helped us. The Doctor wouldn’t do anything to hurt him and you know it.”

“I don’t know,” the Captain shrugged, “I’ve heard he’s not thinking too clearly these days. Not the same man he was during the Time War, not even going by ‘the Doctor’ since that Human of his died. He shot the General not so long ago, didn’t he?”

“Gastron thought the Doctor was on our side and he ended up dead,” the other guard added.

“It was the Mistress,” Anahson said, firmly. “She killed Gastron.”

“See it happen, did you?”

“Well -” the young Janus hesitated.

“We want to help you find Missy,” Ashildr offered no resistance as the guards restrained them with bruising hands on their shoulders, “we’ve been travelling with her. We know what she’s after.”

“Check with the General,” Anahson urged. “She’ll confirm that we’re your best hope of stopping her.”

“How do we know you’re not working with her? She broke you out, didn't she?” The Captain seemed the bull-headed type and Ashildr sighed internally. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she had hoped.

“Look, you’re wasting time and we’re out in the open,” Ashildr checked around them deliberately, noting that the area seemed to be more or less deserted. It was unnaturally quiet and she suspected that all non-essential personnel were hiding or evacuated. “You can trust us or not trust us, I’m past caring at this point. But we have to keep moving and your standing orders are to locate the Mistress, yes?”

“...Yes,” the Captain confirmed, reluctantly.

“So take us with you. We’re unarmed, we don’t know the Citadel nearly as well as you do. We won’t try and escape but we will help you find her.”

“Really,” Anahson was earnest, “we just want to help.”

The Captain indicated that the two guards keep an eye on them as she huddled in close with the male guard who appeared to be her second in command. After a few moments of hushed conversation, they apparently reached a decision.

“Okay, you can come with us but if you put one foot out of line, we will not hesitate, do you understand?”

“This one can’t be killed, Ma’am,” one of the guards behind them shoved Ashildr in the shoulder. “She’s immortal, it’s in her file.”

“Then she’s taking point,” the Captain smiled darkly, “just in case the Mistress has set up any little surprises for us on the way.” She stood to the side and, with a nod of her head, gave Ashildr the order to take her place at the front of the squadron as they began to move out. Ashildr caught Anahson’s gaze and a look of understanding flashed between them: keep your eyes open, trust nothing, expect the unexpected.

* * *

Getting into the Cloisters had not presented the Doctor with much of a challenge, something which immediately made him uncomfortable. As he emerged on his hands and quietly aching knees from under the maintenance interface, he paused, waiting for alarms and shouting and the rush of military issue boots. There was nothing. He didn’t get this lucky, he just didn’t. So, that could only mean one thing - they were lying in wait for him. Clearly, they’d forgotten exactly how many traps he had blundered into over the years and how many he had managed to defeat, with a few recent and painful exceptions.

However, in the dark of the Cloisters, in a place so revered and feared by the Time Lords that it featured in their nightmares as a manifestation of hell, he had one significant advantage: he’d been there before. The plan which immediately formed in his brain scared him with its simplicity and with its brutality. Was it too much? Was he going too far? What else was it going to take? It was worrying him that he wasn’t entirely sure anymore.  

He crept forward, keeping low. Fibreoptic cables lit his path, weaving between the stone columns and illuminating the hanging mist that obscured the ground from sight. A soft whooshing from his right hand side and he froze, allowing the Slider to pass without it recognising his presence or brushing against him. If that happened, he would be filed like the others and useless to help Clara. _Clara_. He glimpsed her ghostly expression in the collar of the Wraith as it turned to slide away. With a thick swallow, the Doctor’s doubts about his course of action fled. If they were going to try and stop him, they were going to have to face the consequences. But, a voice that sounded suspiciously like it originated from Blackpool whispered in his ear, you should at least give them a chance. It’s not like they’re not tracking your every movement. Warn them, make sure they know that you will stop at nothing and maybe they will retreat. He couldn’t envisage a reality in which the General would give up, not when she was so convinced that she was in the right, but he had to give her a chance, for old times’ sake.

The Doctor undid the top button of his shirt, loosening the collar from where it constricted his throat. With a purposeful inhalation, he began to speak, projecting his voice at a booming volume, sounding every bit the wronged deity.

“General-” he heard something move in the shadows, made a note of the angle, the possible trajectories “- I know you can hear me and I know you think you have me surrounded.” He kept moving, creeping deeper into the Cloisters, further in than he knew most of the newer recruits would be willing to go. Only the most hardened, experienced soldiers would be trusted to hold their nerve in the deeper recesses. He’d already probably halved the forces he would have to face, just by virtue of the path he had chosen. Closing his eyes briefly to recall the route he’d taken with Clara back when they had originally escaped into the underground maze, he changed direction, his feet padding almost silently against the stone. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, that if I enter the Matrix and pull Clara out that everything will collapse again, that the Valeyard will win…” he hesitated, this was the hard sell because he genuinely didn’t know himself what would happen. More worryingly, he didn’t care. “But this is about more than that, General. It’s about doing what’s right. Time doesn’t pass the same way in the Matrix as it does across the universe. She could be in there for minutes and it would drag like centuries. She could be trapped for millennia and swear only a second had elapsed.”

Someone was following him now, might have been tracking him since he arrived. Stealthy, unseen. Probably a Commando, judging from how little they were giving themselves away. The Doctor ducked behind a column, traversed some cracked brickwork, gaining the little height that would make all the difference. He’d come far enough, he just had to lead them straight into his trap.

“You might think that’s a fair deal, General, a small price to pay,” dust tickled at the back of his throat, making his voice hoarse, “but it’s torture. It’s cruel and unusual. Clara Oswald is human, she was never meant to be uploaded. In the Matrix, she’ll be lost and scared, locked in battle with the Valeyard for the rest of time.” He ducked quickly around the statue he had spotted, taking care to not touch the unmoving stone of its outstretched hands. “I won’t let that happen, General. I _can’t_. I’m sorry.” Deliberately, he stared at the Weeping Angel, refusing to blink even as some of the dust filtering down from the ceiling caught in his eyelashes. The Angel was half embedded in the wall, just as it had been when Clara had nearly stumbled into its grasp. Cables draped over its shoulders flashed with quick bursts of light. Data transfer, the Doctor noted, something in the Matrix was shifting and changing. _Hang in there, Clara. I’m coming._ He sank back into the shadows and waited; slowing his breathing until there was barely a rise and fall to his chest, soothing his pulse so it hardly beat.

The Commando approached, staring down at the tracker on his wrist for just a fraction too long as he tried to comprehend what had happened to the Doctor’s lifesigns. He passed the Angel without realising what it was, unable to distinguish it from the other grizzly guests left over from the Cloister Wars. His distraction was all the invitation the Angel needed as the Doctor looked away.

Quicker than a flash, the hand which had stretched out towards the Doctor grabbed the cloak of the Commando and held him fast. Coldly, with as much control as he could muster, the Doctor blinked, opened his eyes and blinked again. In a series of movements faster than the eye could perceive, the Angel tightened its grip on the Commando before turning into stone once more. The Doctor stepped out of the shadows, giving the Commando the chance to take in his exhausted appearance, the streaks on his previously white shirt, his rumpled waistcoat and the determined glint in his eye.

“Radio for help,” the Doctor told the young man as he struggled against the Angel. “Your comrades will save you...probably.”

“But…” the Commando stuttered, trying to turn his head so he could keep his eyes fixed on the statue that held him fast.

“Use the screen of your tracker,” the Doctor pointed at the monitor strapped to the Commando’s wrist. Slowly, the man raised his arm and angled the device until he could see the reflection of his own terrified face peering back at him. Behind him, close to his ear, the stone monstrosity had contorted into a twisted roar. The Commando shuddered, sweat beading on his brow as he tried to hold the tracker steady, praying his frantic breaths wouldn’t mist the screen and obscure the image. “And whatever you do,” the Doctor added before turning his back to head further into the Cloisters, “don’t blink.”

* * *

She hadn’t expected the Valeyard to smile. Nor did she expect him to laugh delightedly and pull away from her grip as though he couldn’t be less bothered that his cover had been blown.

“Oh, Miss Oswald. Or Clara, may I call you Clara?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Clara. I do so admire your...pluck.” The Valeyard all but patted her on the head. “I suppose it was a bit much for me to hope that you’d fall for my ruse completely, although that would have been so much more pleasant, do you not think? If we’re going to be stuck in here together for the rest of eternity, we could have at least had some fun with it. A little bit of role-play, perhaps.” Clara couldn’t hide the disgusted expression that crossed her face and the Valeyard chuckled.

“I’m not going to ask again, Valeyard. What do you want?”

“Regenerations, a TARDIS of my own and a universe free of the influence of the Time Lords, your pathetic Doctor included. Yourself?”

She chuffed a small laugh at his frank response. “To stop you.”

“Well, it would seem we’re at something of an impasse, aren’t we?”

“Looks like. You don’t seem particularly bothered by it.” She stalked over to the window, pausing to inhale the scent of the stargazer lilies stood in the vase on the sill.

“You forget,” the Valeyard moved until he was stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Clara stiffened. “This is my domain. I was exiled to the Matrix long before you even knew that Time Lords existed, there is no higher authority on its quirks and eccentricities.”

“And yet…” Clara turned and smiled at him, “you’re as trapped as I am.” She hated the way his gaze roved over her face, lingering - or was it her imagination? - on her lips. He lifted his hand to her hair again and she flinched away, sickened.

“Not for long,” he winked at her, wiping his hand on his trousers, “the process has already begun.”

“Process?” Clara felt a surge of panic rush through her. “What process?” And then she felt a tingle on her cheek, close to where he had caressed her hair before she had been sure that he wasn’t the Doctor. She had leaned into his touch instinctively, hadn’t even considered that there might be consequences. Worried, she lifted her hand to the area, withdrawing it quickly when she sensed an electric crackle flash across her skin. “What have you done to me?”

“Come now,” the Valeyard practically tutted her, “did you really think I would let you keep all the Chronon energy you stole from me?”

“It wasn’t yours to begin with,” she spat through gritted teeth, desperately scanning the room for some means of escape. If the Chronon energy she had absorbed was now leaking from her, she’d be damned if she was going to make it easy for him to collect.

“Now, now,” the rogue Time Lord cooed, “there’s no need for an unsightly panic. It could take centuries yet, not that time really has much sway in here. We might as well enjoy each other’s company, Clara.”

“I’d rather die. Again.” She spied a squat stool to her left, just about in reach, if she moved quickly.

“I was borne of the Doctor,” the Valeyard sounded almost wounded, “do you not think that perhaps some of his influence lives on in me? Some of his desires?” Clara froze, arrested in her preparation to make her move as she recalled more of what the Doctor had told her in the hushed dark of the Cloisters; of quick calculations and a hint of salt in the fresh tang of the air. Her muscles coiled, poised. “Clara. Miss Oswald,” his black eyes glittered menacingly, “didn’t you ever wonder why I didn’t simply destroy you when I had the chance?”

She’d heard enough. With a cry, she pushed the Valeyard backwards with all her might and the shock of the attack sent him staggering towards the bed. It was all the opportunity Clara needed to heave the stool over her head and through the window, smashing shards of glass outwards and down, down floating through the air like pinpricks of razor sharp confetti. With only a nanosecond’s pause, Clara launched herself through the window, feeling something tear through her jeans as she scraped against the broken glass mid-flight. Outstretching her arms, she angled herself the best she could into a swan dive, welcoming the rush of cool air as it rose to meet her from the dark.

Up in the bedroom, the Valeyard leaned out of the window and couldn’t help but gape in wonder as he watched the shadowy outline of her body as it plummeted into the night. He raised an eyebrow and waited until, several long seconds later, he heard a splash as she entered the water that surrounded the castle. Bemused, he pushed himself away from the window and the cold air gusting through, as it caused the flames in the fireplace to curl and stutter in a mocking dance.

“Really,” he muttered to himself as he looked up at her portrait where it seemed to laugh at him from the wall, the light of the fire making the dark oil brushstrokes in her pupils come to life, “I should have seen that coming.”

* * *

Scanning the corridor as it opened out into a wider atrium, Ashildr crept forwards as Anahson moved silently at her shoulder. Emergency lighting cast a cold, blue gleam, leaching everyone of colour. They had heard blaster fire, some static over the Citadel guards’ radios and then silence. They were in a tense alliance with the squadron now, coming to a halt at the junction of two possible routes they could take. At either side, security doors had been dropped and were deadlocked, sealed shut. All a lockdown was going to do was slow their progress and Ashildr doubted that it would cause Missy anything more than the mildest of inconveniences.

“You should ask the General to end the lockdown,” she whispered to the Captain, as she came up behind them, “we need to set up a search pattern quickly without having to stop every five minutes to get authorisation to pass through your own bloody checkpoints.”

“You’ve got a point,” the Captain admitted reluctantly. It was the third time they’d had to stop and it was becoming glaringly obvious that Missy was easily finding a way around the barriers. “Private, get on the comms to the General, see what we can do.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Which way?” Ashildr asked, indicating the two options they could take.

Anahson held her hand up before the Captain could answer, her eyes closing softly shut.

“What’s she doing?” One of the guards asked, moving around to circle the young woman, curious.

“She’s a Janus,” Ashildr said, backing out of Anahson’s way slightly so that her own interminable timeline didn’t cause too much interference. “She can see the future and the past…”

“We’re on Gallifrey,” the Captain scoffed, “that’s hardly a useful skill.”

“Anything?” Ashildr asked, when Anahson chewed her bottom lip in concentration.

“A lot of noise,” Anahson indicated the left hand side of the atrium and the corridor beyond. “Static, in-keeping with the Time Lords’ signatures. A lot of fear, more than there should be. It feels like she might have passed through here recently.”

“That’s the way through to the High Council Chamber, Citadel Control,” the Captain looked at her squadron who were all waiting on her orders. “Epsilon formation, search pattern Delta. Keep your eyes open...”

“Wait.” Anahson shifted, looking in the opposite direction. “There’s barely anything on this side but there is...something, I think. Something familiar.”

“Barely anything versus fear from Time Lords, I know which one I’m more worried about,” the Captain nodded to her team who prepared to move out.

“What’s down the other corridor?” Ashildr stepped into the Captain’s path as she tried to head for the security door.

“Get out of my way.”

Anahson opened her eyes again and took in the stand-off taking place in front of her as the guards rounded on the former Viking. “This is Missy we’re dealing with. Is she really going to do what you expect?” She tilted her head to the left hand side. “There’s almost too much noise that way, it’s overwhelming,” she pointed in the other direction, “but this? It’s like I’m being blocked. Like there’s something someone doesn’t want me to be able to detect.”

Ashildr caught on and gave a quick smile at how far Anahson had come since they had first met on the Shadow Proclamation. At the same time, part of her mourned the loss of the innocence the girl had previously possessed: suspicion and double-thinking were unfortunate side-effects of close association with the Doctor.

“Where do the other doors lead?” Ashildr repeated Anahson’s question to the Captain, who screwed her face up reluctantly. “Well?”

“The research labs. A secure wing, isolated.”

“Okay,” Ashildr frowned, not sure what Missy would be wanting with a laboratory.

“It’s where we’re holding your TARDISes,” the Captain finished, looking a little shame-faced. “The General said you’d breached the Workshop on your last visit, that we should rematerialise them somewhere more secure.”

And that, Ashildr thought to herself, was more than a reason for Missy to be trying to lead them in the wrong direction. If the Time Lady was able to take a TARDIS, she realised, she could be gone and impossible to find in seconds. Not only that, but the Mistress would be loose in the galaxy with all the information she needed to produce a stable, fully-operational Hexadimensional Net of her very own. Ashildr’s blood ran cold.

“If she wanted a TARDIS, there’s a workshop full of them,” the nearest guard pointed out.

“Missy wouldn’t want any old TARDIS,” Anahson almost laughed, “not when the Doctor’s is there for the taking.”

“You’re in charge here, Captain,” Ashildr said, in a tone which held just enough sarcasm to suggest that this was only because it was currently convenient for her, “but consider your target for a moment. Recall everything you know about the Time Lady who calls herself the Mistress. What would she want? Gallifrey? Or the opportunity to reboot the universe in her own image? You think she was hanging around with the Valeyard for his scintillating company? She was biding her time.”

There was a moment when Ashildr genuinely thought the Captain was just going to ignore them and carry on regardless, something that would have brought them into a conflict that she really didn’t have the energy to face. As the Captain weighed up her limited options, the deadlocks finally released from the doors with a bleep and an almost soothing whirr as they both lifted up. Decision time.

“Okay,” the Captain relented, “we’ll play it your way. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

“Isn’t it always?” Ashildr muttered to Anahson, resisting the very real urge to roll her eyes and supplement the teenaged appearance she had been cursed to bear for the last few billion years or so. “Stay on your guard,” she ordered the squadron, who seemed not to realise that they immediately obeyed her.

At the far end of the atrium, the security shutter had opened fully, revealing a clinical walkway beyond that signalled the entrance to the laboratory. Raised on stilts and encased in thick curved glass panels which overlooked the Citadel and its arching dome, the walkway bridged the main body of the tower before allowing access to the hermetically sealed laboratory area at the other side, occupying its own, isolated wing.

There were no staff, no guards. It was like the whole section had been... cleansed.

Any lingering doubts Ashildr entertained about whether they had made the right decision evaporated; this was exactly Missy’s style. Take no prisoners, leave no witnesses.

Their small group was instantly dwarfed by the towering Gallifreyan architecture that fell away above and below them. Night had fallen and a swirling galaxy of stars stretched out over their heads, spiralling off into the vastness of space. For most people, such a sight would remind them of their insignificance, at once a comfort and a menace; for Ashildr, it simply reminded her how much was at stake. She thought for a moment of the Doctor, a thousand levels below them in the the bowels of the Citadel, crawling through the dust and the dirt to save Clara Oswald even when there was a very real possibility that doing so could obliterate all the work they had already done in order to keep the Universe safe. Unease about her complicity in the very prophecy she had vowed to prevent draped itself over her shoulders like an old, familiar blanket as she led the soldiers towards the labs.

Behind them, so quietly that even the guard bringing up the rear did not notice, the security door they had passed through lowered incrementally and sealed itself shut, its deadlock silently reinstated.

* * *

She didn’t lose consciousness, her muscles didn’t tense at the shocking icy temperature, her lungs didn’t burn with the need for air. Instead, she hung, suspended in the murky green water, transfixed by the sight below her. Billions upon billions of skulls, piled all around like dormant volcanoes underneath the surface, waiting to push their way upwards and to the light, to make their ghastly story known. She couldn’t conceive of it, couldn’t bring any of her experience to bear to be able to even begin to comprehend the magnitude of what the Doctor had been through. Ten skulls, she thought, somewhat deliriously. Ten skulls and I’d have thought ‘that’s a lot of skulls’. A hundred and I would have struggled to put faces to them, that’s more people than I know. But this? In a world that shifted and changed with as much regularity as the Matrix did, this was a little too real for her liking.

She could feel herself being tugged upwards, a result of her natural buoyancy. With a couple of strong kicks, she broke the surface of the water and bobbed for a moment amongst the choppy waves, trying to get her bearings. Something overwhelming was surging through her but she pushed the emotions down, deeper even than the fathoms below in which the oldest skulls were resting, looking back at her with their gazeless, accusing stares. She dragged herself back towards the castle with a few splashing, uncoordinated strokes. As she hauled herself up into the dirt and rocks, Clara took a moment to turn and lie on her back, staring up at the stars shining down on her, reflected in the glittering ocean. The highest turrets of the castle’s towers blocked the light of a weak moon.

It was strange, she pondered, that in a world completely fabricated by the Valeyard, she had been able to escape. This was the Matrix. Surely he could have just - she internally shrugged - thickened the air? Reversed time? Any number of solutions could have stopped her from being able to easily get away. Not that flinging herself out of a window was necessarily the easiest option. Unless… _Unless_.

She was a part of the Matrix too, wasn’t she? She was feeding into it herself.

She’d reached for the fly on the monitor back in the banqueting hall and the thing had sprung to life in front of her very eyes, partly, she suspected now, because she’d been afraid that it would. And it had. Perhaps her plan, her leap of faith, had simply been too strongly imagined for him to intercept. Maybe because she had believed - genuinely believed - she was falling, he had been powerless to stop her? After all as soon as she had confronted him, his Doctor disguise had fallen away as though it was no longer worth the energy it was taking him to maintain the deception. Or maybe, instead, she had literally seen straight through it.

Unsteadily, she crawled further away from the lapping waters and scrambled to her feet. She’d come to ground in a part of the castle’s courtyard she hadn’t yet explored. Dead, gnarled tree roots formed a steep path through the mud and back up to the outer walls. Clara hesitated, lifting her hand to her face. Nothing. She couldn’t feel any energy dispersing from her skin. Maybe the distance between them was affecting the strength of the Valeyard’s control over what she directly experienced? He’d drawn her to him in the bedroom like a moth to a flame, had apparently needed close proximity to start the ‘process’ he’d mentioned.

A cool wind picked up and blew through the hole that had been torn through the thigh of her jeans, the pale skin had healed before it could be punctured as a result of her time loop. She was, Clara realised, trapped in a world where the normal rules no longer applied, where everything she could see and touch and smell was a result of the Valeyard’s imagination. But her time-loop still persisted and hadn’t that been the reason why she’d been able to overpower his psychic attack on Eta Rho? Even the TARDIS’ telepathic interface had struggled with the effect the loop had on her. Surely, even here, the same principles could apply? Perhaps if she just focused her own imagination against him, she could fight back against the Valeyard like she had before.

 _Okay, new plan_.

Clara climbed up the staircase of roots, using the thin tree trunks as support until she was level with the base of the castle. She would need to start with something simple, build up to the bigger stuff and test the limits of what she could do. Her clothes were sopping wet and sticking uncomfortably to her skin, making it harder to walk as she tried to pluck the heavy material away from the back of her knees. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the Doctor’s clothes she had placed by the fireside earlier in one of the the main drawing rooms.

Crossing over to the castle wall, she put a palm out to skim across its damp, moss-covered stones as she made her way around the perimeter, searching for a door so she could get back in and out of the wind as it picked up from the across the sea. She made her way through untended flower beds before finally reaching a small pantry entrance that she certainly hadn’t passed in her earlier explorations of the castle. Tentatively, she pulled the door open and stepped inside before quietly closing it behind her, not wanting to give away her position. The Valeyard would be looking for her, she knew.

Turning to face the room’s interior, she ran a tired hand through her hair and paused briefly before experimentally running her fingers through it again. Her hair had already dried just as if she’d been sat next to a fire to warm up. The top of her head even exuded some residual heat. A grin lit up Clara’s face as she frantically checked her top and jeans - dry, clean, neatly pressed, the hole fixed as though it had never been there. Not even a stitch out of place nor a rumple in the fabric. Clara raised a bemused eyebrow. For the first time since she’d been able to freshen up in the TARDIS wardrobe before their adventure on the Last Planet, she probably looked half-way presentable.

 _All right,_ she thought, with a giddy burst of satisfaction. _Now we’re talking_.

* * *

The guards spread out to secure the perimeter as Anahson bent over for a second to catch her breath as she took in the layout of the research wing of the Citadel. The place was _vast_. A lot bigger, Anahson realised wryly, than it looked from the outside. All chrome, steel and glass, there were rooms upon rooms of laboratories filled with equipment so complex and strange-looking that Anahson couldn’t even begin to guess their purpose. Each section had sealed doors, warning signs that clearly didn’t translate well from their original Gallifreyan; the English transliteration supplied by the TARDIS’ influence was a host of jumbled letters, equations and - she did a double-take - emojis.

“Is there any chance,” Anahson whispered to Ashildr discreetly, as she eyed a wall filled with labelled vials full of apparently biohazardous iridescent liquid, “that the Time Lords are actually the bad guys?”

“They’re scientists,” Ashildr replied.

“Very diplomatic.”

The Captain held up a hand and their party halted their progress, listening closely. Anahson tensed as she waited for an attack or an assault. False alarm. With a wave of her hand, the soldier indicated they could continue and Anahson relaxed a little.

“There’s got to be a cure for every illness anyone’s ever had in here,” Anahson hissed.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ashildr agreed, “but they’re not really into sharing.”

The more Anahson discovered about Gallifrey, the less she liked the place. Their captors, or their comrades - whichever way you chose to look at it - had more or less accepted their presence now it was clear that neither she nor Ashildr were going to renege on their deal. However, Anahson herself was still uncomfortable. Part of the reason, she thought to herself, why the Doctor didn’t carry a weapon was because too often they could be used against the people carrying them. She knew better than most what Missy was capable of and she couldn’t help but feel that so far, they had enjoyed far too easy a journey. The quiet was unsettling. It hadn’t passed her notice either that they hadn’t seen a single person since entering this section of the Citadel. Not a corpse, not a discarded tea cup. No sign that anyone had ever been there at all, nor that anyone had left in a hurry. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.  

“We’re here,” the Captain announced, looking up from where her wrist tracker was blinking rapidly. They had arrived at the co-ordinates where the TARDISes had apparently been stowed; she’d had to receive official clearance from her superiors before being sent the encrypted information. The extra security measure was the first bit of good news they had received for a while: if the whereabouts of the TARDISes was such a closely guarded secret, it may have slowed Missy’s progress, clawed back some of her head start. Well, at least Anahson could hope.

“Is this it?” Ashildr looked up at the door that reached almost all the way to the ceiling. It was thick, made of a metal that probably wasn’t steel but looked a lot like it. A large, red airlock wheel was embedded in the centre, a reminder that old technology was sometimes the least corruptible. There were screens either side of the door, a bit like closed-circuit television monitors but they had fallen dark and seemed to have been disconnected.

“Yes,” the Captain confirmed. “But it’s supposed to be locked.”

“We lifted the deadlock,” Ashildr reminded her as she took in the symbols on a digital panel at about head height. They rearranged themselves to the word ‘unlocked’ as the TARDIS’ translation circuits kicked in. They flashed in warning.

“The Quarantine facilities operate on a separate system,” the Captain explained, arming her weapon and checking the pulse chamber, “it’s purposefully isolated from the rest of the Citadel. A completely sealed environment, so I’ve been told. It can only be manually overridden.”

“Missy got here first,” Anahson swore internally. If the door was unlocked, they were too late and they had left the Doctor alone for nothing. She turned away in dismay.

“Let’s open it up,” ordered the Captain, “see for ourselves.”

“Wait,” Ashildr warned. “That’s not a good idea.”

“If the Mistress is in there, she might have hostages.”

“We’ve not seen a soul since we arrived!” Ashildr stepped forward at the same time the Captain did, squaring up against her. “She’ll be long gone but that doesn’t mean she has rigged the place as a farewell gift.” Anahson moved around so that she was in a position to back her friend up if she needed it but the Captain was already issuing orders to her team and there was no way the two of them could stop them all.

Two of the larger guards stepped forward and set to work rotating the wheel of the airlock. The Mistress must have sealed it shut from the other side, Anahson decided, as she listened to the rush of air that indicated an equalisation of pressure. Carefully, one of the guards pulled on the door, tugging it open using all his weight. Idly, Anahson wondered what the hell the Time Lords had been keeping in a quarantine room this size that required such a large, heavily secured door in the first place.

Any of her questions were silenced as the door gradually opened and their party stepped through into the airlock itself. With a look to Ashildr, who nodded regretfully, Anahson followed the guards over the bulkhead. She stuck close to her friend as the first door was sealed behind them and a flashing mauve light doused them from above.

“It’s an atmospheric scrubber,” explained Ashildr, “removing any unwanted bacteria or particulates before we enter the quarantined area.”

The Citadel soldiers took up strategic positions at either side of the second door of the airlock as the burliest guard set to work loosening the final wheel. With a clunk, the mechanism released and, seamlessly, the Captain and another guard took point ahead of Ashildr. With a quick round of ‘ready?’ ‘affirmative’ from the soldiers, the second door was pushed open ahead of them.

The first thing Anahson noticed (it was kind of hard to miss them) was that both TARDISes were present and accounted for, exactly where the Captain had said they would be. Shocked, she was about to look across to Ashildr in askance until she saw the room’s second, and slightly less welcome feature.

Missy was stood in the centre of the room. Evidently, she had been waiting for them.

Ashildr pushed past the Captain, her mouth open and jaw working but it took a while for the words she was shouting to filter through the high-pitched panic buzzing through Anahson’s ears. Missy was wearing a gas mask, she noticed, as she dimly heard the soldiers shout orders and level their weapons at their target. Why was she wearing a -?  

The Time Lady raised her hand above her head with a flourish. There was a flash of colour which Anahson belatedly recognised as one of the iridescent vials she had spotted on their way through and it was only at that moment that Ashildr’s cry made sense.

“Get out, get out!”

“Fall back!” The Captain was roaring too, but nobody could move that fast.

As soon as the vial hit the floor and smashed in a dainty tinkle, the air filled with a plume of billowing foam that expanded exponentially, surging towards them like a tsunami before it crested, raining down upon them, scattering into a fine ash. Anahson found herself suddenly tackled to the ground, a hard hand thrown over her mouth and nose to stop her from inhaling whatever was now coating them all. It’s no good, of course, Anahson thought desperately as she struggled for breath, completely unable to do anything about her rear face animating defensively to pick up the slack. The powder fell from her hair and, as her second pair of eyes opened to watch the scene unfold behind her, her rear mouth had already taken a couple of heaving gasps of the contaminated air.

Disoriented, able to see both in front of and behind herself at the same time, Anahson noticed that the Gallifreyan soldiers seemed far more adversely affected by the powder than she was. They fell to their knees, instantly disarmed as their weapons clattered loudly to the floor. They were clawing painfully at their eyes and throats as though they could undo whatever damage the nerve agent was causing through sheer will alone.

Missy was dancing on the spot - conducting - Anahson realised, the soldiers’ jerking actions, her arms rising and falling to some symphonic crescendo only she could hear. Her gas-mask made the whole show macabre, an unholy terror from a different time. Anahson tore herself away from Ashildr’s fierce grip, clutching onto the immortal woman’s shoulders as it hit her: Missy would only need the gas mask if there was a chance of self-contamination.

“Look at them!” She shouted, trying to get Ashildr to understand. The Captain’s face was purpling, her eyeballs straining and laced with red. The guards were about to asphyxiate right in front of them, there had to be something they could do.

_The airlock._

Anahson was suddenly stilled by the presence of absolute clarity. If they got them to the airlock and managed shut the door the decontamination scrubbers would surely kick in and destroy the powder! “Get them back through!” She cried, as loudly as she could so Ashildr could hear her over the din.

Scrabbling to her feet, she grabbed the nearest soldier and propelled him by his own stumbling weight back the way they had just come, over the bulkhead until he crashed heavily into the airlock. With her back turned, Anahson could see Missy pulling what looked like a Gallifreyan blaster, the same sort as the squadron were dropping to the ground as they cried out, from behind her back. They had to move quicker. Ashildr, acting like she was still not entirely sure whether Anahson was safe, helped to bodily move the others into position. Between them, they half-carried, half-dragged the Captain as the last of her men, with a strength borne out of centuries of training, threw themselves forwards and through the door despite their agony. Once they were clear, Ashlidr and Anahson worked together, panting, to shut the door. Between them, they quickly rotated the wheel on the airlock - Missy was within range, laughing - practically hanging from it as it became harder to turn, only stopping when it wouldn’t give anymore.

Anahson stepped back just as Missy fired.

The flash from the muzzle sparked brightly but the shot had already reached her before she could dive out of the way. She could clearly see, using her rear vision, the thin trail of light it left in its wake. A burst of pain travelled all the way across her skin as she convulsed violently, caught in the throes of an electric charge that made her feel like she was on fire. The last thing Anahson was aware of before unconsciousness blissfully enveloped her in its dark, comforting arms, was the broken scream that accompanied Ashildr’s desperate attempt to catch her as she fell.

* * *

The Doctor clenched his jaw as he stripped the fibre optic cable he’d pulled loose and fitted it into the prised open electronic panel on the Dalek’s casing. He could hear more of them coming for him, could smell their sweat and fear. By now, word would have got out amongst the soldiers that he was taking them down one by one, leading them on a merry dance of booby-traps as he made his way steadily to the centre of the Cloisters and the entrance to the Matrix. Every hatch he’d come across so far had been de-activated and he hadn’t the time to decipher the override code. As much as he cursed the General, he had to applaud her foresight and her tenacity. However, he could tell the numbers of soldiers willing or capable of actively looking for him were rapidly dwindling. The last Lieutenant he had passed had laid down his weapon and wished him luck before scurrying off into the darkness, the Doctor hadn’t even needed to bring the Cyberman into play.

The three approaching now, however, were Elites - not that their ranks meant anything to him. Their presence could only mean that he was getting closer to his goal. With a sharp rap on the Dalek’s headpiece, he quickly rolled up his sleeves - was it him or was it getting unbearably warm in the normally cool Cloisters? - and gave the wiring a last twist to finalise the connection. Smearing soot and dust across his forehead with the back of his hand as he wiped his brow, he listened as the Dalek powered up. Just enough energy to restore some functionality, just enough power to charge its ray to the point where it would knock the three Elites off their feet and take them out of the game. He was starting to enjoy himself a little too much.

“Exterm…” the Dalek stuttered, the end of its eyestalk flickering blue intermittently.

“Come on, this should come naturally now you’ve got some more juice,” the Doctor muttered, trying to assess how effective his repair had been. He froze as he saw a small cloud of dust erupt from behind a huge stone pillar. No time left, he had to keep moving. He darted onwards, dropping the length of fibreoptic cable that was left over from his adaptation. As he ducked quickly around a corner, he could hear the misplaced shots as the Elites took aim at his retreating form. Their blasts toppled a precarious column over in his path and he leaped over it, landing heavily on the other side in a crouch. Suddenly, a broken cry filled the air, even more disjointed than the usual chilling command.

“Ex..te.rm..in..in.in…” it broke off and the Doctor heard five weak-sounding shots, fired in quick succession. Pushing his luck, he peered over the fallen column back to where the three Elites now lay, twitching sporadically on the ground as the Dalek’s eyestalk went dark, the rotation of its headpiece grinding to a diseased halt. He steeled his heart against the sight and nodded sharply. _Good_.

The path between the stone walls of the Cloisters was growing less and less navigable, the light of the cables reaching fewer of the corners and dank recesses. Even the Sliders couldn’t access this particular short-cut, let alone the General and her clunking, out of practice guards. It couldn’t be far now. He scrambled over the skeleton of some unfortunate who must have been filed away centuries ago, their bones slowly disintegrating even as the Matrix data spools tried to sustain the organic matter. He avoided looking into the eye sockets of the skull, shaking his head to clear the unwelcome image of a bed of blank, unseeing faces staring up at him through thick, murky water.

The Doctor came to an abrupt stop.

The narrow passage he had squeezed down had suddenly widened into a broader opening. This was it: the deepest, furthest flung entrance to the Matrix. A half-eroded stone platform, almost reminiscent of a sacrificial altar, was covered in Gallifreyan etchings carved into the rock. Here, he could upload himself into the Matrix and physically enter the computer network. No need for fancy headgear, Seventh Doors or Nets fashioned from stolen moments of time. The tradesman’s entrance, unguarded and almost forgotten. The Doctor chewed on his thumb momentarily, debating his best course of action. The Elites hadn’t been too far from this location, it was safe to say the General would know, having blocked every other possible point of entry along the way, that he would end up here. So where was she? The Doctor sighed. It wasn’t like he had a choice; this was the only option she’d left him.

_So be it._

He stepped forward into the circle surrounding the Matrix Port, staring up as the ceiling stretched away above him, a mass of cables and wires running through the very heart of the Citadel itself. As he crossed the inner curve of the circular Gallifreyan symbol for ‘knowledge’, a complex inter-locking design that embodied far more ideas than a single word could convey, he found himself suddenly - but not unexpectedly - illuminated by bright lights. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he squinted through his fingers to see the General, with Rassilon at her side and, flanking them, a host of a dozen Cloister Wraiths, motionless, apparently awaiting orders.

“That’s far enough, Doctor,” the General called. “You know I can’t let you take another step.” Well, she at least sounded apologetic, the Doctor mused. Rassilon, however, his glee was unmistakeable. The Doctor looked down at the ground, scuffing a haphazard pattern in the fine sand coating the floor with the toe of his boot. He examined his design; two intertwined names hastily scratched in High Gallifreyan. The Doctor gave a slow, sad smile as he fought back every single instinct currently tearing through his veins, trying to be the good man he was supposed to be. At his side, his right fist clenched and unclenched tightly.

“Nice company you’re keeping there, General,” his eyes slowly adjusted to the light cast by the twelve flickering faces of Clara Oswald in the dark. He sought out the General and tried to assess how much her allegiance had shifted. He hoped not too far, their entente had been delicate at best, even before this whole mess.

“You left me no choice, Doctor.”

“You’re right,” the Doctor shrugged and took another step forwards, edging closer to the Port. “The Universe has been saved, the Cloister bells have fallen silent. I understand.” He paused. “I’m sorry about Gastron.” The General nodded, the only acknowledgement she was able to give for so fresh a loss.

“If you accept that Time has healed, the Valeyard vanquished,” Rassilon boomed, “why do you persist with these games?”

“Why did you deal with the Valeyard to bring back Gallifrey in the first place,” the Doctor snapped, “when you knew the cost would be so high?” He scoffed, “Oh, what’s the point? You wanted him to test your precious ‘Net. This was all an experiment to you.”

“The lesser of two evils,” Rassilon responded, pointedly. “The Hybrid threatened all of Gallifrey.”

“The Valeyard destroyed the universe, hardly a fair trade off.”

“Doctor,” the General intervened as he inched forwards once more. “Stop. Just stop there and think for a second. If Miss Oswald is in the Matrix then, then…” she broke ranks with Rassilon and the Wraiths, her eyes wide as she tried to convince him, “she can’t return to Trap Street. She’s safe and Time hasn’t fractured. And one day, when your cycle is over and you’re finally uploaded yourself, you can be together. Can you not see? This is the best outcome you can hope for.”

The Doctor couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing. Almost bent double, he wheezed and spluttered, his chest aching and sides splitting from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. And all the while, Rassilon seethed at the far side of the circle. The Doctor guffawed, hooted, as he thought back to everything they had been through to bring him to this point: the Judoon and their rampage on the Justice Asteroid, Govian’s terrified face as the Valeyard tested the limits of his prison from within the Doctor’s mind, Anahson’s horror on Haida as she winced to hide the pain of the inhibitor embedded in her temple, trembling with the loss of her father; Clara’s hands smoothing his jacket into place after he had painfully recovered his memories in the Zero Room, swiftly followed by Lonkath’s flared nostrils as he tried to overthrow the Council and tear them apart. He remembered the sight of the energy beam destroying Clara’s flat, the harsh winds on the Last Planet as the Reaper bore down upon them, the huddled masses at Bethnal Green Station hiding behind the false security of Missy and the towering pyramid the Valeyard had constructed to rip Anahson and Ashildr out of the narrative, underscored by the sweeping desperation as he and Clara had kissed, battered and broken, lying in the dust trapped in a bubble of reality at the end of time. No, not broken, he resolved. They would never be broken.

Wiping a stray tear from his cheek, the Doctor’s laughter died.

They hadn’t been through all that to give up now. Nothing could stop him from trying to get her back. He defied them: Rassilon, the General, the Sliders. The rules of Time could go to hell, of that he was sure. Even if all he could do was hold her one last time before she was sent back to the point of her death, he owed her that. She deserved better than being filed away, forgotten, stored for eternity by the ungrateful Time Lords with her face - _those eyes, that smile_ \- forever screaming in the collars of the Wraiths.

Rassilon had sensed his change of mood. Something about the red-rimmed fervour of his stare, the stern set of his jaw. The former Lord President raised his hand, gauntlet shining with its untold power and the host of Wraiths slid forward, forcing the General backwards to avoid being overrun as they carved their path towards the Doctor . The Sliders circled around him, blocking off any possible exit as they encroached, drawing closer, trapping him in an ever-decreasing space. The Doctor backed nervously away from their towering figures and flowing robes, only to spin around and have to edge in the opposite direction to avoid running into the ones who had glided into position behind him.

Their circle tightened and the Doctor shuddered as their ghostly shadows swarmed over him. He fell to his knees as the Wraiths crowded around him, leaning over, mechanically reaching out with skeletal arms draped in seas of black fabric. A strange calm fell over the Doctor as he focused on the Wraith directly in front of him. It leaned in so close that he knew Clara Oswald’s face was projected across the pale, tight skin of his own. Closing his eyes, the light of her projection played in reds and pinks across the back of his eyelids as he waited for them to strike.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brevity is the soul of what now?
> 
> I'm going to stop claiming that anything is the penultimate chapter because strange things happen when I say that and I end up writing more. So, yes. Hope you're still enjoying the ride. It'll finish at some point, I'm sure.


	15. Futurology - Part I

_ ‘One day we will return,  _

_ No matter how much it hurts, _

_ And it hurts.’ _

Futurology - Manic Street Preachers

 

* * *

 

“...It’s like Schrödinger’s Cat, I bloody love it.”

“For god’s sake Missy, it’s nothing like -”

“Oh come off it, it’s exactly the same. Either they’ve coughed up their lungs - literally, by the by - or you and Two Face here saved them. But no one will know until they open the airlock. They’re alive and dead at the same time!” 

Out in the darkness, something bleeped angrily. It sounded suspiciously like a TARDIS console refusing to cooperate. There was a sudden, repetitive clunking noise.

“Put the hammer  _ down _ .”

“I hope it’s a cleaner. It’s usually a cleaner, isn’t it? Or a jogger. Or dog-walker. They’re always finding bodies. Maybe a cleaner who’s out for a jog with their dog-”

“Would you just...shut up?”

“Will not. Especially now this one’s waking up. Rise and shine! Stop pretending,” a sharp toe prodded Anahson somewhere in the vicinity of her left kidney and she groaned into the metal grating of the TARDIS floor.

“Anahson,” Ashildr’s voice was closer to her ear now, all worried tones as the blackness behind her eyes lightened into brutal, painful consciousness, “are you okay?” A wave of nausea hit her and Anahson had to turn her head quickly to spit onto the floor. Her empty stomach heaved and rolled as she gagged.

“Ugh now that’s just wonderful, the damn ship’s having a strop as it is - fat lot of good covering her in your digestive enzymes is going to do.” 

Anahson sat up, dizzy and fighting the urge to make sure all her limbs were in the right place. She felt like she had been torn apart and haphazardly stitched back together. She pushed the palms of her hands into her eye sockets, trying to clear her blurry vision.

“How are you feeling?” Ashildr leaned in close, concerned. Something must have flashed across Anahson’s face. “Okay, stupid question. Do you think you can stand?”

“Give me a minute.”

Ashildr looked Anahson over, assessing. “Take all the time you need.”

“We don’t have all day,” Missy snorted, “and the stun setting on those blasters isn’t that strong so don’t even think about playing me for a fool.”

“It’ll have more effect if you’re already exhausted,” Ashildr stressed, “if you’ve already been on your feet for god knows how long, if your mind has recently been inhibited by a mad woman...”

“Don’t get cocky, Viking,” Missy’s tone switched to cool, clipped consonants. “I might not be able to harm you, but I can cause this one some significant damage before her usefulness runs out.” A rough hand grabbed under Anahson’s arm and pulled sharply upwards until the pressure of the grip compelled her to her feet. Unsteady, head swimming, she turned to face the Mistress, resisting the very real temptation to vomit all over the Time Lady’s pristine suede boots.

“Ship’s broken. I need you as a current... _ occupant _ ... to get under the hood and see why she’s refusing to fly.” Missy pushed Anahson towards the console and the young woman fell against it.

“I can’t help you,” Anahson stuttered, looking blearily across the array of switches and panels whose functions she could only very vaguely guess, “I don’t understand -”

“Pudding brain,” Missy interrupted, “let me worry about that. Just put your fingers in here if you want to keep them as functioning digits. I was going to snip a couple off while you were unconscious until Lady Muck here advised me you probably wouldn’t survive the shock.”

Anahson sighed, caught Ashildr’s eye and saw the worry lining her face, highlighting the experience and suffering that belied her young exterior. Experimentally, Anahson waggled her fingers and made her way around to the TARDIS’ telepathic circuits.

“Where even are we?” She asked, trying to sound casual as Missy guided her fingers into the strangely fleshy fronds of the TARDIS’ circuitry. 

“Same place we were when she shot you,” Ashildr answered pointedly before Missy could silence her, “same time, too. We’ve not budged an inch.” The other woman sounded pleased and Anahson knew why: if they were still on Gallifrey, the Mistress’ plans to escape and form her own version of the Valeyard’s devastating weapon would be more or less scuppered. Anahson took in the muted lights, listened to the quieter than usual rumblings of ambient noise she would normally associate with the TARDIS console room; it looked as though the time machine had reached the same conclusion and had more or less shut herself down. More or less, for inside the telepathic interface, something pinched her finger.

“Clear your mind, dear,” Missy advised. “Shouldn’t be too arduous a task for you, should it?”

“I hardly think insulting me is going to get me to -” Anahson’s rejoinder faltered as she felt a current rush through her. Briefly, she wondered whether Missy had blasted her again but instead of excruciating pain, she felt herself overcome with a kind of radiating warmth. The aches and pains in her muscles, the burns across her skin where the blaster had hit, they suddenly evaporated as a calming presence washed over her. Although not understanding how, exactly, Anahson knew the sensation was the TARDIS herself, just as surely as she knew that the ship was trying to communicate, asking her permission to establish some sort of connection. Without a second thought, Anahson consented. She felt her rear face animate as the time machine tapped into her psychic ability, gently taking it over. 

Missy whooped with satisfaction as she saw Anahson’s rear eyes open.

“Now we’re talking!”

“Anahson, are you okay?” Ashildr hovered at the other side of the console, reluctant to edge any closer with the Mistress so near to her friend. Anahson was unconcerned, allowing the images the TARDIS was showing her to flood through her system as everything else faded into the background: she could sense Missy moving around the console, pressing buttons and pulling the levers that would eventually override the TARDIS’ controls, but this temporary vulnerability was something the time machine seemed to think was worth the risk. Anahson had never felt so honoured. It was quite something to be communing with the sentient vessel she had come to think of as home. 

At first, there were only flashes of light; spinning kaleidoscopes of colours that could have been people and places if only they hadn’t been moving too quickly for her to be able to discern.  _ Slow down _ , she thought, feeling the TARDIS’ confusion.  _ I can’t process as quickly as the Doctor can _ . Gradually, the light show calmed to a merely dizzying overload of sensations. As they wrapped around her mind, they formed a connection within her synapses, tapping into her memory of the past and her ability to see the future. Even with her genetic advantage, Anahson was only just able to focus on a familiar, lanky frame amongst the plethora of information threatening to eradicate her sense of self. Distantly, she could sense that the TARDIS was doing all she could to help; steering her when she wandered from the figure, dragging her back to it again and again until it finally came into sharp focus.

The Doctor. 

Grand, domineering, a Time Lord on a mission. He looked every bit the Destroyer of Worlds as star systems and equations whirled around him. Anahson ignored them as best she could - evidence of scientific theory she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Instead, she focused on the Doctor’s hand, his ring glinting majestically as he reached out to grab a smaller hand, hold it tightly in his own and pull its owner alongside him as they barrelled down a corridor - no, not a corridor - it was a  _ vortex _ , the TARDIS told her without speaking, a swirling mass of time and space that had no purpose being where they were, had no reason to be solid, to not tear the universe apart as soon as any matter came within light years of its influence; a vortex which appeared to be collapsing in on itself, folding under its own weight. And still the Doctor ran with his companion, seemingly unaware of the chaos about to envelop them. Or perhaps they just didn’t care, Anahson worriedly realised. Whatever relief she may have felt at the sight of the Doctor and Clara reunited disintegrated as something cold and gelatinous crept up through the tips of her fingers, seeping up into her forearms before spreading across her chest. It touched every inch of her, suppressing her reflexive response to pull herself from the telepathic circuitry and run away as quickly as she could. 

_ Fear. _

Fear, tasting metallic in her dry mouth and making her heart suddenly thunder uncomfortably in her chest. With a cry, Anahson snatched her fingers away from the TARDIS. She heard Missy’s triumphant shout as the time rotors began to churn and spin, taking them away from Gallifrey and towards whatever destination the Time Lady had programmed. 

It didn’t matter, Anahson thought desperately as she gasped for breath and held a hand up to stop Ashildr from rushing to her aid. Missy could travel to wherever she wanted in the universe and it wouldn’t make one jot of difference. The TARDIS had shown her. It wasn’t the Mistress that the time machine was afraid of - no, she was afraid  _ for _ , not of - it wasn’t the Time Lady that the TARDIS was so urgently trying to warn them about. No. That determination was reserved solely for the Doctor and his impossible human companion. It echoed in the one phrase the ship had shown her, over and over as the TARDIS’ fears travelled from the distant past and into the far-flung future. It was a dire warning that Anahson had been able to understand without the need for translation or assistance:  _ The Hybrid must be stopped. _

 

* * *

 

The classroom at Coal Hill School was almost exactly as Clara remembered it. To say it was fabricated solely from her imagination, she had to admit she’d done a good job. With her hands on her hips, she surveyed the corner of the Confession Dial she had managed to transform through sheer force of will, redesigning the Valeyard’s haunting reconstruction of the Doctor’s personal hell into something infinitely more comforting; what’s more, it was an environment she could hopefully control. Gone were the brick walls with their embedded clockwork structures capable of rearranging the rooms at a moment’s notice, replaced by rows of decades-old wooden desks, still bearing the compass scratch scars of bored former students. Underneath each cheap plastic chair, hardened chewing gum clung on for dear life, hidden in shadows and untouched by the pale, winter sun filtering in through the rattling sash windows. The sky outside resembled a grey Thursday afternoon in December, very much like the day of the last lesson she had taught - Year 8’s,  _ Songs of Innocence and of Experience _ \-  before the Christmas holidays, before she and the Doctor had been reunited, joined hands and run away together, never to return.

Clearly, she must still harbouring some residual guilt about abandoning her vocation, not to mention her students, in order to galavant around space and time in a temperamental blue box with a dangerously eye-browed lovable idiot. It surely wasn’t coincidence that it seemed to be the exact same day. And despite everything that had happened to them since, Clara still didn’t regret her decision. Oh, she had plenty of regrets but choosing the Doctor would never be one of them.

She had worked methodically and tirelessly. Theorising, testing, confirming her hypothesis. The trick, she’d quickly realised, was suspending her own disbelief, a skill which years of travelling with the Doctor had luckily exercised to the point of ludicrous flexibility. The more she moulded what she could see into what she could imagine, the easier the process became. It fed into itself, like a snake eating its own tail. In the meantime, she very much doubted the Valeyard had been sat twiddling his thumbs but she was too grateful for the mental respite his absence brought after the icy cold depths and that soul-destroying mountain of skulls to concern herself too much with what he was plotting for her next; she’d face whatever he had to throw at her, even if they were locked in this battle of wits until Time itself came to an end. There had to be a way to incapacitate him, Clara frowned as she perched on the corner of her desk and stared up at the one element of the room she had not been able to change no matter how hard she’d concentrated. The television screen stared back, reflecting a muted version of the classroom like a black mirror, sucking all of the light out of the room and revealing a darker, more insidious reality. There had to be some way to stop him from being able to reassert his twisted plan, to prevent him from taking away the combined energy of herself and the Doctor that she knew, somehow, now resided within her. 

The television blinked on under her scrutiny, screen flashing into life with a burst of static. Clara slid off the desk, staring wildly around the room in case the Valeyard had found her, looking for any sign of his presence. The classroom remained empty, innocent.  _ Right, okay. _ Clara closed her eyes briefly, feeling her influence over the Matrix waver.  _ It’s okay _ . 

Curious, she made her way over to the screen where it was positioned, high up on the wall at the other side of the room. She gazed up at it, mouth falling open.

“What the -?”

Unlike when she had first arrived, the screen wasn’t displaying a replay of the Doctor’s time in the Confession Dial and, very briefly, she was grateful that she wouldn’t have to witness any more of his torture whilst being powerless to do anything about it. Instead, she instantly recognised the setting as being the dark, foreboding gloom of Gallifrey’s Cloisters. Clara gingerly grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it over, its feet scraping across the floor, and then quickly stepped up onto it so that she could bring her face in line with the image being broadcast. Ghostly figures moved across the foreground, sliding effortlessly to form a tight circle around their prey: the Cloister Wraiths in action. From the perspective of the image and the smooth movement of the vantage point as it fell into line with the other Sliders, Clara guessed that she was seeing straight out of the haunted, screaming face that she knew would be projected on the Wraiths’ tarnished collars. Momentarily, she looked away. It had never occurred to her before that those flickering faces were capable of sight.  Now, she was overcome with the realisation that the Wraiths had been watching, listening, recording their every utterance when she and the Doctor had escaped from Gallifrey all that time ago, when she had finally told him the truth about how she felt. It was enough to send an unpleasant shudder down her spine. Whose side were they on? Rassilon’s? The Valeyard’s? Did they even have an agenda? 

Reaching up, she gripped onto both sides of the screen and tried to see what had captured the Wraith’s attention so absolutely, even though the niggling sensation at the back of her mind told her that she probably already knew. The image angled down as soon as she’d finished the thought and she almost lost her balance at the strange feeling of control that washed over her. Clara steadied herself and refocused as curiosity gave way to dread.

There, on his knees, staring back up at her, was the Doctor. An ill-fitting combination of defiant and resigned, his blue eyes blazed out of the screen directly towards her. Clara’s fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white with the effort. Moments passed and Clara found she couldn’t even blink, much less look away. Her throat tightened painfully with the urge to cry out to him, to encourage him to keep fighting, but she knew it would do no good. Finally, the Doctor closed his eyes in what looked like prayer, an incongruous smile playing across his lips. He almost looked at peace with what was about to happen.  And then the circling Wraiths silently, hungrily moved in, swooping to claim their victory.

* * *

 

The Doctor waited for his imminent demise for a good few minutes before deciding to find out what the hold up was. Carefully opening one eye, he stared up at the Wraiths. They were still surrounding him, still reaching towards him with their skeletal fingers, but they had not attempted to file him. They seemed to have frozen in place. Perhaps they’d developed a fault? Unlikely scenario. The Matrix didn’t develop faults; it simply didn’t happen. The system had far too many fail-safes for that kind of thing.

He rose from his knees into a crouch, brushing the dust from his trousers as he hovered uncertainly in the middle of the circle. The Sliders were packed around him so tightly that he couldn’t make out where Rassilon and the General were stood which meant...which meant that they couldn’t see him either. The Doctor’s mouth dropped open as an incredibly improbable thought struck him. Turning with growing amazement, he closely examined the faces of the Sliders as they looked down at him. Resisting the urge to reach out his hand to cup her cheek, he stared into the unblinking eyes of Clara Oswald as something very closely resembling hope warred against the adrenaline and terror surging through his system. He knew that face. Suddenly, the blank expressions of the Sliders seemed warmer, more familiar. Why did he get the impression that she was staring right back at him?

“Clara?” His voice was a whisper as emotion robbed him of volume. The projection of her face faded and his hearts leapt in his chest until she abruptly reappeared, her mouth snapping shut as her eyes glittered fiercely with a fondness he always missed when she wasn’t with him. Her lips quirked into a half smile which was quickly followed by a full, deliberate wink.

The Wraith had  _ winked _ at him.

The Doctor was nonplussed as two of the Wraiths behind him shifted, giving him enough room to stand up straight. Beyond that, they fell still again and he was hesitant to do anything that might break the strange spell that had apparently been cast over them. More jerking movement to his side and now he had to look away, turning to see that the Wraiths were parting slightly, clearing a path for him to make his way to the Matrix Port. They formed a barrier between him and the General, seemingly completely unresponsive to the gauntlet the Doctor knew Rassilon would be brandishing frantically, baying for them to finish the job he had commanded them to do. The thought of Rassilon shaking his fist in the air impotently made him chuckle. 

The Doctor stared around, hardly believing his luck. But it wasn’t luck, was it? Anything reported as luck rarely was, he’d learned. No, this was one hundred percent Clara Oswald, pure and unadulterated. Somehow, even trapped inside the Matrix, she was managing to save him, just like she had when they first met and at every available opportunity from then onwards. He tugged at his waistcoat trying to make himself look a little less haggard, less like he’d been crawling around in a crypt. He ran a hand through his hair, sprucing himself up a bit as the vanity he'd tried to quell in this incarnation returned with abundance. She’d told him once, in a roundabout way he’d tried at the time to ignore, that he was her hero. Well, even if he’d never believed that himself, he could at least try to look the part. He was going to enter the Matrix and he was going to save Clara Oswald. Or, more accurately, he was going to level the playing field so she could save herself. She never had been a damsel in distress, he very much doubted she was going to start now. 

With a spring in his step, he trotted along the honour guard she had lined up for him, finally jumping up onto the Port and planting his feet on the Gallifreyan symbols as the Wraiths slid around to protectively encircle him on the platform. He sensed from the slight stagger to their movements that he didn’t have long, that her interference would have cost her an awful lot of energy. He could dimly hear the General and Rassilon shouting orders at him from behind the tall figures; could make out the desperation in the General’s pleading tone and the unleashed fury in the former Lord President’s.  _ To hell with them both _ . There was a rush of intoxicating freedom as he willfully abandoned any further thought about whether this was the right thing to do, about whether he was risking everything they had fought so valiantly for by going in to get her back. He knew he was, there was no point in denying it. And, this time, she wasn’t there to pull him back from the brink with her sorrowful eyes or whispered entreaties.

The Doctor took a deep breath and summoned the reserves of regeneration energy which had not yet completely settled in his system after being returned to him. With delicate control, he projected a stream of golden light down from the tips of his fingers into the circuitry of the Port. The light gradually filled the etchings like molten lava thickly working its way down the side of a volcano. He exhaled, focused and calm.

All at once to his left there was a rush of air, a billowing of fabric, a desperate snatching of taloned fingers as whatever influence Clara had managed to hold over the Wraiths dissipated. They lunged towards him, lightning fast. But even their super speed was too slow for the efficiency of the ancient Port. The energy crackled loudly under his feet, building rapidly to a crescendo until -  _ whoosh! _ \-  in a flash of supernova-bright light that he knew would make the General and Rassilon shield their eyes behind outstretched hands, the Doctor vanished into the Matrix and the Wraiths’ fingers could only clutch at empty air.

* * *

Ashildr followed Missy warily as the Time Lady all but skipped over to the doors of the TARDIS. They had arrived at their destination and an all too familiar feeling of unease settled itself across Ashildr’s shoulders as she tried to catch Anahson’s eye. She had run out of ideas on how to get them out of this situation. Any move she could possibly consider making against Missy had drawbacks that she wasn’t particularly sure, for all her bluster to the contrary, she was prepared to face. If she forced the Mistress’ hand, she knew the first casualty in the resultant chaos would be Anahson. As much as Ashildr tried to convince herself that one person’s life when the fate of the universe was in the balance was a cheap price to pay, she had to admit that the influence of the Doctor and Clara’s own code and morality had a greater impact than she had realised. Anahson’s life was meaningless when stacked against the worlds that would undoubtedly burn if Missy got her hands on the Hexadimensional Net but, at the same time, that thing, that magical and powerful thing - one ordinary, innocent life with so much potential - wasn’t it exactly what made the universe worth saving? Look at how far Anahson had come since they’d met on the Justice Asteroid. Look how much she’d done, and influenced and learned. In sacrificing that, in weighing it up and deeming it insignificant, wouldn’t she be halfway to achieving Missy’s goal herself without the Time Lady even having to lift a finger?

Indecision was something Ashildr had not been acquainted with for longer than she cared to remember.

Too late to act now, if there had even been a window of opportunity while Missy’s back was turned: the doors were flung open and daylight poured into the console room.

“Come on, Anahson,” Ashildr angled her head to the door. “We’re not beaten yet.” Anahson, still shaken from whatever she had experienced while connected to the TARDIS’ interface nodded wearily and made her way over, watching carefully as Missy stepped over the threshold, her angular silhouette swallowed by the light beyond.

“Wait,” Anahson swiftly clutched Ashildr’s arm. “Listen-”

“She won’t hesitate in killing you,” Ashildr said, trying to herd her friend towards the door. “She’s got what she wanted, let’s not push our luck.”

“The TARDIS isn’t bothered about Missy. She wasn’t shut down to stop her from travelling. Well, she was, but not for the reason you think.” Anahson spoke quickly, jumbling her words to the point that Ashildr had to shake her head, thinking she’d misheard.

“What?”

“It’s the Doctor and Clara. Together. It’s always been that. That’s what the TARDIS was trying to tell us. She’s terrified of the Hybrid, she’s scared for the Doctor.”

“But I thought the prophecy had -”

“Whatever the Doctor’s doing now, however he’s trying to get her back again…” the young woman’s eyes were wide and pleading, “we never questioned it, on Gallifrey. We never for one second thought that he shouldn’t get her back from the Matrix.”

“Clara dies on Trap Street - that’s the deal. He has to get her out of the Matrix or it never happens.”

“Is it?” Anahson hissed and Ashildr frowned, thinking. “Or is Clara being extracted from the point of her death just as much of a fixed point now as her dying in the first place?”

Well, that was something Ashildr hadn’t considered.

“Think about it,” Anahson urged, “if Clara hadn’t been extracted, what shape would the universe be in?”

“Are you saying -”

“Oi! Jorvik Viking Centre, Four Eyes!” Missy’s shout carried sharply across to them from outside. “Get out here now or I’m throwing in a grenade to hurry you along.” Ashildr winced and shook her head at Anahson. They would have to figure something out but it wouldn’t do to arouse Missy’s suspicions. Momentarily, Ashildr wondered whether the Mistress had perhaps already considered this possibility, that maybe the merry dance she had led them on Gallifrey had been specifically designed to distract their attention from the mistake the Doctor was running headlong into. After all, hadn’t Missy been the one to put the Doctor and Clara together in the first place? Something very close to horror rose up in the immortal woman’s throat.

What if...Ashildr almost stopped moving towards Missy, who was stood a short distance away impatiently timing their progress on a fob watch, but caught herself just in time. What  _ if _ Clara was the only thing stabilising the Valeyard’s Hexadimensional Net? What if the process had been more complete than they’d thought? If Clara was now projecting her own reality outwards and maintaining the universe’s status quo, then surely the Doctor entering and dragging her back into the real world would remove that stabilising influence…and here Ashildr was, light years away, possibly millennia out of reach without a single, solitary thing she could do about it.

It wasn’t until she had come to a complete stop that Ashildr realised where Missy had brought them. It took a few beats before she recognised where they were, mainly because of the people and the shacks making the moon look far less desolate than it had the last time they had been there. Ashildr felt the moment Anahson noticed by the sudden intake of breath over her shoulder. She kept her eyes on the Time Lady, though, watching for any flicker of a reaction. Missy had schooled her features carefully and that told Ashildr all she needed to know: this wasn’t part of the plan.

“Something wrong, Missy?” She almost managed to hide the smirk in her voice. Where they had emerged more than likely spelled disaster for the universe at large but the fact it also messed with Missy’s meticulous exterior filled her with a perverse kind of joy.

“Oh, shut it, Me,” Missy snapped as she stared around her, eyes wide. “You know what this means.”

A cart rattled noisily down a lonely dirt track, pulled by a tired-looking horse. The driver barely blinked at the time travellers stood in the middle of the sparse field, he merely tipped his cap towards them and returned his gaze to the ramshackle hamlet at the end of the road. 

“This is a good thing, right?” Anahson’s voice floated over her shoulder and Ashildr turned around to face her friend, taking in the hazy gas giant that dominated the sky as twilight began to make its influence known. Anahson’s face was earnest. “I mean, this is Eta Rho, right? And there’s no rifts, no doors. Everything’s back to normal. It’s fixed.”

“Amateur,” Missy spat as she pulled a device out from her pocket and began to scan the ground in front of her, monitoring a small screen as it danced into life with readings, crackling like a geiger counter in a fallout zone. “Did the Doctor teach you nothing? You can’t save everyone, petal.”

Ashildr sighed. “It’s  _ too _ fixed,” she explained. At Anahson’s look, she gestured to the retreating cart. “These people - The Valeyard killed them before he’d even harvested the energy for the Net. They didn’t vanish because of the ‘Net itself, the Valeyard wrote them out of time out of pure spite. Reversing the effects of the ‘Net shouldn’t have brought them back.”

“We’re a little off,” Missy announced, closing her device with a blip. “We were at the other side of the village.”

“Ashildr?” Anahson sounded surprised as Ashildr nodded and began to follow the Mistress as she strode with purpose the path the horse had just trod. “We can’t just -”

“We have to,” Ashildr scowled, ducking her head just in time to watch herself stand in a particularly boggy patch of mud. As the puddle sucked at her foot, she couldn’t help but think that a quagmire was exactly what they seemed to be stuck in: however hard they fought, whatever action they took, they just got dragged back into the fray. 

“But isn’t this a good thing? These people were dead, now they’re alive,” Anahson wouldn’t give up, couldn’t give up hope. She trotted along beside Ashildr, nervously checking Missy’s progress ahead of them.

“They weren’t dead, Anahson,” Ashildr sounded a little short and regretted it. She hoped Anahson would understand that it wasn’t the Janus she was frustrated with. Ashildr was annoyed with herself more than anything. “They were wiped out of Time. You can’t just undo something of that magnitude and get away with it.”

“But the Doctor would know not to, right? He wouldn’t do that.” They were walking quickly now, the houses drawing closer with every step. Ashildr swallowed thickly as she spotted a child playing with a stick outside one of the shacks on the outskirts of the village.

“No, he wouldn’t,” she replied to Anahson, darkly. “Not under normal circumstances.Which is what makes me think that this is exactly what the TARDIS was trying to warn you about.”

 

* * *

In an uncoordinated flailing of limbs, the Doctor slammed heavily to the ground. His fingers pushed against dirt and crushed flowers as he shook his head to recover from the shock, blinking owlishly at the rain that quickly coated his shirt and skin as he looked up into a light grey sky. Earth? He shifted his hands out of the mud and sniffed inquisitively at the soil clinging to his fingers. Definitely Earth.  He clambered messily to his feet, spotting the old, familiar sign of Coal Hill School with a wry smile.

_ Never try to control a control freak _ . 

He should have known that if anyone could challenge the Valeyard within the Matrix, it would be Clara. The smile quickly slipped, however, when he took in the rest of the scene. Clearly, a battle of wills was taking place. Whilst Clara’s influence was apparent, he very much doubted that his human companion had chosen to augment the design of her old workplace with the familiar and wholly unwelcome architecture of his Confession Dial. For a moment, the Doctor’s breath was stolen from his lungs as cold flashes of his suffering returned to him. His fist throbbed with phantom pain that felt so real he had to check to make sure his knuckles were not torn and bloodied. It wouldn’t do to recall his torture too vividly whilst in the Matrix, the one place where it could again become a reality... The Doctor swallowed thickly, craning his neck to take in the towering spires that rose out of the East London brickwork. He could sense the temporal forces at work as Clara and the Valeyard vied for supremacy. The sky overhead, he noticed, was torn between the grey of a London winter and an encroaching, nebulous swirl of out-of-place stars, indicating untold cosmic uncertainty.

With a last, determined look up to the darkening sky, the Doctor took off towards the school at a clumsy lollop. He frowned a fire escape into existence and embraced the metallic clatter his boots made as they raced up the staircase. It had been more time than he dared to measure - possibly more than was strictly measurable, come to think of it - since he had last been in the Matrix itself, and he knew his inability to remain focused for more than two minutes at a time was going to work against him here, especially since this was essentially the Valeyard’s home turf. But he knew Clara Oswald - he and she were  _ terrifyingly _ alike, if you bothered to ask the rest of the Universe - so he knew where to start looking, could imagine the thought processes that would have led her to replicate the school in the first place. Lifting up the sash window once he’d reached it and imagined it unlocked, he gingerly began to climb through into Clara’s classroom. Half in and half out of the window, he took in the desks, the interactive whiteboard, the stain on the rug that had absolutely nothing to do with him or his ill-fated attempt to carry two cups of coffee and a pile of books at the same time. She’d recreated her old workplace with an accuracy he took a brief second to be ridiculously proud of before gracelessly clambering inside and padding across the room, depositing the last remnants of the flowerbed onto the scuff-marked floor as he did so.

“Clara?” the Doctor spoke softly. 

He paused, watching and listening closely as he turned on his heel in one fluid motion to scan around him. The room appeared to be deserted and he wondered if he might have made a mistake. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he spotted the flickering television screen high on the wall. Static trickled across the screen before it audibly  _ popped _ into darkness. That must have been the conduit, the Doctor realised as he cautiously approached. An upturned chair looked decidedly out of place underneath the monitor and, more out of instinct than anything else, he righted it, tucking it beneath a desk. He knew Clara wouldn’t want anything to be left out of place like that, fabricated reality or not. His attention turned to the harsh fluorescent light flickering intermittently above his head when, somewhere beyond the confines of the classroom, a door slammed shut. 

The Doctor instantly honed in on the noise, estimating distance and speed and density of material in a millisecond, based purely on the amount of time it took for the sounds to vibrate in his ears. Someone light, wearing heels. They were running quickly away from him with the shallow strides of short legs. Without allowing himself time to think, the Doctor pushed through the battered classroom door and burst out into the corridor beyond. 

Immediately, he was thrown into darkness, stumbling at the sudden, utter completeness of it. The door behind him disappeared, swallowed by the shadows which closed in and covered him like an impenetrable blanket. Inwardly, and a little bit outwardly, the Doctor cursed. He should have seen this coming. Clara would have been weakened from her interference with the Wraith on his behalf. 

What better time for the Valeyard to strike? 

He didn’t dare take a step in case the ground fell away in front of him. As a distinctive coldness rose up and crept across the still air, the Doctor sent out a desperate plea he hoped would solidify and become reality:  _ please don’t let me be too late _ . For some reason, even after everything they had endured together, the thought of Clara stumbling around in the pitch black scared, alone and just out of reach was more than he could bear. His jaw clenched tightly as the Doctor reached into the lining of his waistcoat, remembering the heft and weight of his sonic screwdriver in his mind’s eye so that all he had to do was pull it out and brandish it, at least get some light so that he could... 

Something was moving behind him. 

He held still, feeling the microscopic variations in the air ripple across his skin as whatever it was approached. Hand halted by his side, the Doctor started as something soft wrapped gently around his fingers.

“It is you, right?” Her voice was warm and brave as she stepped in close although a slight tremble gave away her uncertainty. He looked down with a grin on his face, even though there wasn’t a chance in this blackness of her seeing it.

“Almost definitely,” he replied in a stage whisper. “You?”

“Probably. It’s hard to tell in here.” The fingers tightened their grip a little.

“Did you turn out the lights?”

“I don’t think so but it’s entirely possible my mind wandered.”

“Ah, welcome to the Matrix,” the Doctor clasped onto her and held his free hand aloft in the air, outstretched, “where nothing is as it seems and everything seems utterly bonkers.” He felt the sonic land in his palm as he conjured it out of nothing, flicking it on with a triumphant whirr,  

“You don’t need to tell me, I’ve been here for -” she hesitated a fraction too long. In the slight, electric blue glow of the sonic he finally looked at her. 

There she was. Round face staring back up at him, expressive eyes temporarily shadowed by what he knew would be a complete lack of capacity to calculate exactly how long she’d been stranded here. Even he could only guess. When five minutes could pass in a century and a millennia might take mere seconds, there wasn’t a great deal he could do to comfort Clara. He smiled instead, hoping it would go some way to being reassuring, even though he hadn’t exactly figured out how they were going to get out of this one. Not yet, he chastised himself.  _ Not yet _ . She smiled back at him, and he felt some of his energy return after his mission through the Cloisters.

“Hello, there.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she grinned. “How many rules did we break this time?”

“Oh, all of them,” he raised his eyebrows. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Getting to be a habit, that.”

“You saved the universe, Clara. I wasn’t about to leave you in here.”

“Now you're stuck here too. Is there even a way out?”

“Well,” he adjusted his grip on her hand, ensuring it was more firmly in his, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Ooh, it'd be great if the exit from the Matrix actually was a bridge, wouldn't it? Although it does lack a certain amount of dramatic flare.” Experimentally, he lifted his foot up and then inched it forward. The floor before them seemed solid enough. He frowned. If he had to guess, he’d say they were still in the same corridor they’d been in before the pitch black had descended, which rendered the darkness nothing more than a parlour trick. He tapped on the ground with his boot. Varnished hardwood. “We’re still in Coal Hill,” he told her as he encouraged her forwards, holding his sonic screwdriver out in front of them as he peered at whatever its dim light could reveal.

“Then what’s the Valeyard playing at?” Clara voiced the question before he could ask it himself. What would be the point of expending valuable energy on a cheap, haunted house gimmick? Now that he and Clara were back together, the Valeyard was at a clear disadvantage. They walked with a bit more confidence now, reaching a door and pushing their way through, instinctively heading towards where the main hall of the school would be.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, wishing he had a hand free so that he could run it through his hair and clear his scattered thoughts but he wasn’t about to let go of her any time soon and so he would have to make do. “Maybe he’s just being dramatic? Thinks that perhaps if we can’t see the world you’ve built - nice job by the way -”

“Why, thank you.”

“-That if we can’t see it it’s harder to…” the Doctor’s sentence ground to a halt and he stopped dead, almost yanking Clara’s arm out of its shoulder in the process. “Oh,” he said.

“Oh?” Clara looked up at him, watching as his eyes widened and he began to stare around them as if he he was expecting something to attack them at any moment. “I’m guessing that’s a bad ‘oh’?” Clara prompted as the Doctor suddenly started moving apace, pulling her after him. “Doctor?  _ Doctor! _ ”

“Keep up, we need to keep moving,” the flailing gait of the Doctor’s run kicked in and Clara found herself having to double stride to match him. “It’s not the Valeyard. He’s not the reason it’s dark,” the sonic screwdriver bobbed along ahead of him, seeming to draw intricate loops and patterns of neon brilliance as it cut through the air. “The Matrix is a supercomputer,” he huffed as they finally neared the large double doors that would take them through to the assembly hall. He sonicked them open and bundled her through into the empty room beyond before slamming the doors shut again. As one, they put all their weight back against them and held them closed as though a thousand hell hounds were chasing them. “The Matrix is where the prophecy of the Hybrid originated from; that we’re going to stand over the ruins of Gallifrey and unravel the Web of Time.”

“Okay,” Clara stared out into the darkness of the hall, her eyes straining for whatever threat the Doctor had perceived. She could see nothing. “So what?”

“What does a computer do when it detects a threat in its system?” He indicated between the two of them pointedly. Clara squinted up at him as her eyebrows rapidly climbed into her hairline.

“Oh,” she said, as she finally caught on. “That’s not good.”

“An  _ antivirus _ ,” the Doctor confirmed, his tone serious. “That’s why the Valeyard didn’t bother stopping you saving me from the Wraith. He must have known. He doesn’t have to waste energy coming after us; the Matrix is going to do that all by itself.” 

The words had barely left the Doctor’s mouth when a huge shudder overtook the doors behind them, reverberating through the walls and into the floor beneath them. It sent them both scurrying away and towards the centre of the room as, from outside, something terrifying gave an almighty howl that resonated so loudly Clara had to bend over double, dropping the Doctor’s hand to cup hers over her ears, uselessly. She felt the Doctor grab onto her waist, looking up just in time to see the doors to the hall buckle, splinter and, after one suspended moment, crumble into dust.

 

* * *

 

Rassilon’s anger was palpable. And that wasn’t an understatement, the General blanched. It was tangible, the air electrified with it as the former Lord President stared at the space the Doctor had so recently vacated. The Sliders finally cleared away from the Matrix Port and returned to their patrol of the Cloisters as though nothing had happened. Rassilon had to lower his gauntlet down to his side as the mysterious device glinted, somehow managing to seem regretful it wouldn’t get to unleash its fearsome power.

“Epsilon unit, come in,” not one to tolerate inaction for long, the General thumbed her communicator into life. Only static was returned and she frowned. The last she’d heard from the squadron, they’d come across the Doctor’s companions and were guarding them as they tried to locate the Mistress in the Citadel’s Quarantine. The lack of response was unsettling. It didn’t take much of a tactical mind to figure out what had probably happened. The General winced. Rassilon swept past her as she tried to raise them again. He had marched over to the Matrix Port before she could event react, his cloak sweeping majestically behind him. the General found she had reached for her sidearm before even having the opportunity to think about her actions. As she unclicked the safety, the noise echoed around the stone walls surrounding them. Rassilon froze, his back still towards her as she rose her arm, aim as steady as ever despite the rampant bossa nova of her twin heart beats under her armour.

“What exactly,” Rassilon snarled, “do you propose to do with that, General?”

“Stay where you are.” A wraith slid around the perimeter of the chamber, as though their confrontation had attracted its attention. Cautiously, one eye on the Slider, one on Rassilon, she stepped forward. “I can’t let you follow him, Sir.” The honorific sounded hollow even to her own ears and the General briefly paused to consider why she had even sided with the obsessed despot before her in the first place. In her defence, the Doctor had left her little choice. But now? Rassilon’s insistence the Doctor was the source of all that was wrong in the Universe was beginning to seem more like a self-fulfilling prophecy than anything else. If only Rassilon had allowed her to reason with the errant Time Lord, she was sure she could have eventually got him to see sense. All those troops and traps, and for what? The only thing Rassilon had achieved was hardening the Doctor against them and now, in the bleak aftermath of the Doctor’s disappearance, perhaps that had been the plan all along. History was littered with ‘extreme measures’ that were only ever permitted after some unthinkable sleight that, as it turned out, had been completely avoidable to begin with. The carte-blanche for action, for a soldier, hell, probably for half of the High Council was often too tempting to turn down. It didn’t matter who else got hurt in the process. It happened each and every time and the General wasn’t about to allow her former leader to propel them into making the same, age-old mistake.

So, a stalemate.

“This is it, General,” Rassilon’s eyes flashed, menacingly. She knew he wouldn’t be frightened of her weapon but maybe, just maybe, the defiance her levelling it  _ at him _ was what was causing such an emotional response. “Time to pick your side, once and for all. Pledge your allegiance to me, to Gallifrey, to the home you swore to protect all those centuries ago…” he cast his arms widely around him, gesturing grandly at the pillars of the Cloisters as though to remind her of the ancient civilisation they upheld, “...or choose to support the Doctor. A half-breed and a rebel, a Time Lord unworthy of title who mocks the very values our society holds dear.” With a snarl, the despot turned his back to her as though her answer was either a foregone conclusion or of so little significance to him that he didn’t care to hear it.

It was this last display of arrogance, funnily enough, that cemented the General’s decision. 

Enough was enough. 

She was fed up of trying to reconcile her duties to the struggling Gallifrey with her renewed commitment to being the kind of soldier who was respected rather than feared. And perhaps it was this particular regeneration, perhaps it always was going to be this final regeneration in which she found herself far more concerned with what she would have to face up to inside her Confession Dial than she was with upholding the old, failing infrastructure that, time and time again, had brought Gallifrey and the wider Universe to its knees. The General was tired of it all. This whole debacle since the Doctor and Clara Oswald had fled Gallifrey was the perfect example of the constant strain she had been labouring under for far too long. She had one life left to live and, as she freely admitted to herself, she had quite a lot to begin to make amends for. Despite this reasoning, all of which happened so quickly it felt more like a revelation than a conscious choice, the General will still surprised when her finger actually squeezed the trigger.

Rassilon had reached the Matrix Port but the round hit him before he could step up onto the plinth and he silently crumpled into a heap of robes. The General was moving towards him as her training kicked back in; weapon still at the ready, covering her target in case she had not incapacitated him fully. Heartbeats thundering in her ears, she approached cautiously.

“Get up,” she demanded, voice firm.

There was no response from the former Lord President and a wave of panic washed over her as she edged nearer, not ready to open herself up to any possible trickery. Had she killed him? Could Rassilon even  _ be _ killed? There was no sign of regeneration energy, no sign at all, come to think of it, that had been a little too… Suspicions aroused, the General kicked at the slumped outline lying half on and half off the Matrix Port. The voluminous robes sank in on themselves until they lay flat on the dusty ground. Lowering her weapon, the General grimaced, torn as to whether this was a victory or a defeat. With her boot, she toed the robes one more time for good measure. 

Rassilon and his gauntlet had both disappeared.

* * *

 

Clara propelled the Doctor away from whatever the hell was thundering through the walls towards them, grabbing his elbow and pulling, pulling until he was stumbling after her, until they were once again racing blindly through the dark. All she could sense in the pitch black was the size of it, the speed of it. In her mind’s eye, a thousand sharp teeth bared down on them and she tried to not think about it, knowing that in this place, thinking about whatever was in pursuit would only make it more real, more dangerous. Part of her knew that trying to  _ run away from the Matrix _ was a particularly pointless exercise when they were caught within its confines, but she was also aware - and this was knowledge she  _ must _ have accrued when she’d been bloody taken over by the Wifi that time, not that she was about to complain about its origins at this precise moment - that antiviruses weren’t always one hundred percent effective, that sometimes a computer virus pretty much counted on the subsystems of the antivirus to propagate. She just had to hope that between them, she and the Doctor could figure out how to make the most of the strength, the threat the Matrix had detected that they represented and make it work in their favour for once, instead of always allowing the barest mention of the Hybrid to set them on the back foot.

Thinking quickly, she knew decided they needed to get somewhere safe; somewhere the Matrix would have to recognise as being a refuge that would at least slow the attack down. They thundered down a corridor as the Doctor finally caught up and surged ahead, clinging to her hand now as the sonic screwdriver led the way. The floor disappeared under their feet and Clara knew the pretence of the school could no longer be maintained.

“Don’t look!” The Doctor cried, tugging at her arm as though he sensed her intention to check over her shoulder to see if it was gaining.

“What the hell is it?” she yelled, ducking her head as something shattered above them. Glancing upwards, she saw it was the ceiling - previously hidden in the dark - lifting away above their heads, tearing itself apart with the force of a tornado ripping through plywood. Above them, the universe was a swirling expanse of reds and greens and blues, more vivid than anything she had ever witnessed and somehow menacing, accusatory. No, make that  _ furious _ .

“It’s whatever we’re most afraid of,” the Doctor shouted as a radioactive wind whipped around them, “so you  _ really _ don’t want to know. Knowing gives it power.”

With a shout, Clara found herself lifting from the ground only to be sharply tugged back down to his side. “Don’t you dare,” he panted as he scoured the rapidly changing terrain in front of them. The darkness receded as the cosmic dance unfurled above their heads. Clara could feel herself lifting from the ground again and clutched more tightly to the Doctor’s arm, only to find that he was beginning to float too, seemingly unable to keep his feet on the ground.

“Sorry,” he spat, through gritted teeth, “I know the physics too well, Earth’s gravity would be impossible in this scenario.”

“What about oxygen?”

“Disappeared two minutes ago,” Clara wasn’t sure if it was her imagination but his eyes seemed to be bulging out of their sockets more earnestly than usual.

“Respiratory bypass?” she checked.

“For now,” he tried to take a reading on the sonic but the grimace flickering across his face was all the information she needed. They needed to find some way to wrestle back control, and fast. Thinking deeply, putting all other thoughts out of her mind other than the need to keep them safe, to keep him safe, she tried to imagine what safety would look like.

And, all of a sudden, she knew.

Opening her eyes, she saw the battered, dark blue doors ahead of them. The Doctor hadn’t seen or couldn’t see, so she tugged on his arm and willed them upwards, faster than the lack of gravity could possibly allow, soaring towards their goal. Fingers outstretched until she imagined beams of magical energy streaming from their tips, she willed the familiar scratch of worn wood to remind her of every time they had poured into the recalcitrant time machine: each time they'd fallen in laughing, each time they'd crashed to the floor escaping unspeakable horrors, every instance they'd trudged back home covered in slime and blood and the dust of a hard day's work.

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the turmoil of the Matrix muted. 

Bent double, the Doctor recovered himself, gasping for breath as Clara rubbed her hand soothingly across his back. They'd made it. They were safe.

As the Doctor smiled up at her between heaving gulps, she tried to quieten the little voice in the back of her mind. They'd made it. They were safe...

... _But for how long?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm...sort of back? This was the first half of the 'last, last...definitely last' chapter I was working on until about June 2017 when work and life absolutely took over anything resembling the will to write. I've excised things and posted the bits I like - it was going to be the end of the story but clearly that became a struggle so to ease myself to completing this, I'm posting it anyway in the vain hope anyone is still interested.
> 
> A thousand apologies, and I hope you enjoy it if you're still invested in the story. 
> 
> More. To. Come.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fall Through Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827102) by [GingerIsTheCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerIsTheCat/pseuds/GingerIsTheCat)




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